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DAY  AND  NIGHT  STORIES 


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DAY  AND  NIGHT 
STORIES 


.irt^" 


BY 


ALGERNON  BLACKWOOD 

Author  cf  "Ten  Minute  Stories,"  "Julius  LcVallon," 
"The  Wave,"  etc. 


NEW   YORK 

E.  P.  BUTTON  ^  CO, 

681  FIFTH  AVENUE 


/ 

f 


COPYRIGHT,  191 7, 

By  E.  p.  button  b-  CO. 


printed  in  the  anited  States  of  Hmerica 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.  The  Tryst i 

II.  The  Touch  of  Pan i6 

III.  The  Wings  of  Horus 41 

IV.  Initiation 66 

V.  A  Desert  Episode 94 

VI.  The  Other  Wing 112 

VII.  The  Occupant  of  the  Room^<^l,*/2>^<>^.'^"  134  c/:-*^ 

VIII.  Cain's  Atonement 145 

IX.  An  Egyptian  Hornet 154 

X.  By  Water 162 

XI.  H.  S.  H 171 

XII.  A  Bit  of  Wood .187 

XIII.  A  Victim  of  Higher  Space 192 

XIV.  Transition 216 

XV.  The  Tradition 223 


40fio>v 


DAY  AND  NIGHT  STORIES 


DAY  AND  NIGHT  STORIES 

I 

THE  TRYST 

"Je  suis  la  premiere  au  rendez-vous.    Je  voxis  attends." 

As  he  got  out  of  the  train  at  the  little  wayside  station  he 
remembered  the  conversation  as  if  it  had  been  yesterday, 
instead  of  fifteen  years  ago — and  his  heart  went  thump- 
ing against  his  ribs  so  violently  that  he  almost  heard  it. 
The  original  thrill  came  over  him  again  with  all  its  in- 
finite yearning.  He  felt  it  as  he  had  felt  it  then — not  with 
that  tragic  lessening  the  interval  had  brought  to  each  repe- 
tition of  its  memory.  Here,  in  the  familar  scenery  of  its 
birth,  he  realised  with  mingled  pain  and  wonder  that  the 
subsequent  years  had  not  destroyed,  but  only  dimmed  it. 
The  forgotten  rapture  flamed  back  with  all  the  fierce 
beauty  of  its  genesis,  desire  at  white  heat.  And  the  shock 
of  the  abrupt  discovery  shattered  time.  Fifteen  years  be- 
came a  negligible  moment ;  the  crowded  experiences  that 
had  intervened  seemed  but  a  dream.  The  farewell  scene, 
the  conversation  on  the  steamer's  deck,  were  clear  as  of 
the  day  before.  He  saw  the  hand  holding  her  big  hat  that 
fluttered  in  the  wind,  saw  the  flowers  on  the  dress  where 
the  long  coat  was  blown  open  a  moment,  recalled  the  face 
of  a  hurrying  steward  who  had  jostled  them;  he  even 
heard  the  voices — his  own  and  hers: 


2\ ; ;;;  :;  B^y  ancji  Night  Stories 

"Yes,"  she  said  simply ;  "I  promise  you.  You  have  my 
word.    I'll  wait " 

'Till  I  come  back  to  find  you,"  he  interrupted. 

Steadfastly  she  repeated  his  actual  words,  then  added : 
"Here ;  at  home — that  is." 

"I'll  come  to  the  garden  gate  as  usual,"  he  told  her,  try- 
ing to  smile.  "Fll  knock.  You'll  open  the  gate — as  usual 
— and  come  out  to  me." 

These  words,  too,  she  attempted  to  repeat,  but  her  voice 
failed,  her  eyes  filled  suddenly  with  tears;  she  looked 
into  his  face  and  nodded.  It  was  just  then  that  her  little 
hand  went  up  to  hold  the  hat  on — he  saw  the  very  gesture 
still.  He  remembered  that  he  was  vehemently  tempted  to 
tear  his  ticket  up  there  and  then,  to  go  ashore  with  her,  to 
stay  in  England,  to  brave  all  opposition — when  the  siren 
roared  its  third  horrible  warning  .  .  .  and  the  ship  put 
out  to  sea. 

Fifteen  years,  thick  with  various  incident,  had  passed 
between  them  since  that  moment.  His  life  had  risen, 
fallen,  crashed,  then  risen  again.  He  had  come  back  at 
last,  fortune  won  by  a  lucky  coup — at  thirty-five;  had 
come  back  to  find  her,  come  back,  above  all,  to  keep  his 
word.  Once  every  three  months  they  had  exchanged  the 
brief  letter  agreed  upon  :    "I  am  well ;  I  am  waiting ;  I  am 

happy ;  I  am  unmarried.    Yours ."    For  his  youthful 

wisdom  had  insisted  that  no  "man"  had  the  right  to  keep 
"any  woman"  too  long  waiting;  and  she,  thinking  that 
letter  brave  and  splendid,  had  insisted  likewise  that  he 
was  free — if  freedom  called  him.  They  had  laughed  over 
this  last  phrase  in  their  agreement.  They  put  five  years 
as  the  possible  limit  of  separation.  By  then  he  would 
have  won  success,  and  obstinate  parents  would  have  noth- 
ing more  to  say. 

But  when  the  five  years  ended  he  was  "on  his  uppers" 
in  a  western  mining  town,  and  with  the  end  of  ten  in 


/ 


The  Tryst 


sight  those  uppers,  though  changed,  were  little  better,  ap- 
parently, than  patched  and  mended.  And  it  was  just  then, 
too,  that  the  change  which  had  been  stealing  over  him 
betrayed  itself.  He  realised  it  abruptly,  a  sense  of  shame 
and  horror  in  him.  The  discovery  was  made  uncon- 
sciously— it  disclosed  itself.  He  was  reading  her  letter  as 
a  labourer  on  a  Californian  fruit  farm:  **Funny  she 
doesn't  marry — some  one  else!"  he  heard  himself  say. 
The  words  were  out  before  he  knew  it,  and  certainly  be- 
fore he  could  suppress  them.  They  just  slipped  out, 
startling  him  into  the  truth;  and  he  knew  instantly  that 
the  thought  was  fathered  in  him  by  a  hidden  wish.  .  .  . 
He  was  older.    He  had  lived.    It  was  a  memory  he  loved. 

Despising  himself  in  a  contradictory  fashion — both 
vaguely  and  fiercely — he  yet  held  true  to  his  boyhood's 
promise.  He  did  not  write  and  offer  to  release  her,  as  he 
knew  they  did"  in  stories.  He  persuaded  himself  that  he 
meant  to  keep  his  word.  There  was  this  fine,  stupid, 
selfish  obstinacy  in  his  character.  In  any  case,  she  would 
misunderstand  and  think  he  wanted  to  set  free — himself. 
"Besides — I'm  still — awfully  fond  of  her,"  he  asserted. 
And  it  was  true;  only  the  love,  it  seemed,  had  gone  its 
way.  Not  that  another  woman  took  it ;  he  kept  himself 
clean,  held  firm  as  steel.  The  love,  apparently,  just  faded 
of  its  own  accord;  her  image  dimmed,  her  letters  ceased 
to  thrill,  then  ceased  to  interest  him. 

Subsequent  reflection  made  him  realise  other  details 
about  himself.  In  the  interval  he  had  suffered  hardships, 
had  learned  the  uncertainty  of  life  that  depends  for  its 
continuance  on  a  little  food,  but  that  food  often  hard  to 
come  by,  and  had  seen  so  many  others  go  under  that  he 
held  it  more  cheaply  than  of  old.  The  wandering  in- 
stinct, too,  had  caught  him,  slowly  killing  the  domestic 
impulse;  he  lost  his  desire  for  a  settled  place  of  abode, 
the  desire  for  children  of  his  own,  lost  the  desire  to 
marry  at  all.    Also — he  reminded  himself  with  a  smile — 


4  Day  and  Night  Stories 

he  had  lost  other  things :  the  expression  of  youth  she  was 
accustomed  to  and  held  always  in  her  thoughts  of  him, 
two  fingers  of  one  hand,  his  hair !  He  wore  glasses,  too. 
The  gentlemen-adventurers  of  life  get  scarred  in  those 
wild  places  where  he  lived.  He  saw  himself  a  rather 
battered  specimen  well  on  the  way  to  middle  age. 

There  was  confusion  in  his  mind,  however,  and  in  his 
heart:  a  struggling  complex  of  emotions  that  made  it 
difficult  to  know  exactly  what  he  did  feel.  The  dominant 
clue  concealed  itself.  Feelings  shifted.  A  single,  clear 
determinant  did  not  offer.  He  was  an  honest  fellow. 
"I  can't  quite  make  it  out,"  he  said.  ''What  is  it  I  really 
feel?  And  why?'*  His  motive  seemed  confused.  To 
keep  the  flame  alight  for  ten  long  buffeting  years  was 
no  small  achievement ;  better  men  had  succumbed  in  half 
the  time.  Yet  something  in  him  still  held  fast  to  the  girl 
as  with  a  band  of  steel  that  would  not  let  her  go  entirely. 
Occasionally  there  came  strong  reversions,  when  he  ached 
with  longing,  yearning,  hope;  when  he  loved  her  again; 
remembered  passionately  each  detail  of  the  far-off  court- 
ship days  in  the  forbidden  rectory  garden  beyond  the 
small,  white  garden  gate.  Or  was  it  merely  the  image 
and  the  memory  he  loved  "again"?  He  hardly  knew 
himself.  He  could  not  tell.  That  "again"  puzzled  him. 
It  was  the  wrong  word  surely.  .  .  .  He  still  wrote  the 
promised  letter,  however;  it  was  so  easy;  those  short 
sentences  could  not  betray  the  dead  or  dying  fires.  One 
day,  besides,  he  would  return  and  claim  her.  He  meant 
to  keep  his  word. 

And  he  had  kept  it.  Here  he  was,  this  calm  Septem- 
ber afternoon,  within  three  miles  of  the  village  where 
he  first  had  kissed  her,  where  the  marvel  of  first  love 
had  come  to  both ;  three  short  miles  between  him  and  the 
little  white  garden  gate  of  which  at  this  very  moment  she 
was  intently  thinking,  and  behind  which  some  fifty  min- 
utes later  she  would  be  standing,  waiting  for  him.  .  .  . 

He  had  purposely  left  the  train  at  an  earher  station; 


The  Tryst  5 

he  would  walk  over  in  the  dusk,  climb  the  familiar  steps, 
knock  at  the  white  gate  in  the  wall  as  of  old,  utter  the 
promised  words,  *'I  have  come  back  to  find  you,"  enter, 
and — keep  his  word.  He  had  written  from  Mexico  a 
week  before  he  sailed;  he  had  made  careful,  even  ac- 
curate calculations :  "In  the  dusk,  on  the  sixteenth  of 
September,  I  shall  come  and  knock,"  he  added  to  the 
usual  sentences.  The  knowledge  of  his  coming,  there- 
fore, had  been  in  her  possession  seven  days.  Just  before 
sailing,  moreover,  he  had  heard  from  her — though  not 
in  answer,  naturally.  She  was  well ;  she  was  happy ;  she 
was  unmarried;  she  was  waiting. 

And  now,  as  by  some  magical  process  of  restoration — 
possible  to  deep  hearts  only,  perhaps,  though  even  by 
them  quite  inexplicable — the  state  of  first  love  had  blazed 
up  again  in  him.  In  all  its  radiant  beauty  it  lit  his  heart, 
burned  unextinguished  in  his  soul,  set  body  and  mind  on 
fire.  The  years  had  merely  veiled  it.  It  burst  upon  him, 
captured,  overwhelmed  him  with  the  suddenness  of  a 
dream.  He  stepped  from  the  train.  He  met  it  in  the 
face.  It  took  him  prisoner.  The  familiar  trees  and 
hedges,  the  unchanged  countryside,  the  *'field-smells 
known  in  infancy,"  all  these,  with  something  subtly  added 
to  them,  rolled  back  the  passion  of  his  youth  upon  him 
in  a  flood.  No  longer  was  he  bound  upon  what  he 
deemed,  perhaps,  an  act  of  honourable  duty;  it  was  love 
that  drove  him,  as  it  drove  him  fifteen  years  before.  And 
it  drove  him  with  the  accumulated  passion  of  desire  long 
forcibly  repressed;  almost  as  if,  out  of  some  fancied 
notion  of  fairness  to  the  girl,  he  had  deliberately,  yet  still 
unconsciously,  said  *'No"  to  it;  that  she  had  not  faded, 
but  that  he  had  decided,  '7  must  forget  her."  That  sen- 
tence :  "Why  doesn't  she  marry — some  one  else  ?"  had 
not  betrayed  change  in  himself.  It  surprised  another 
motive :    "It's  not  fair  to — her !" 

His  mind  worked  with  a  curious  rapidity,  but  worked 
within  one  circle  only.     The  stress  of  sudden  emotion 


6  Day  and  Night  Stories 

was  extraordinary.  He  remembered  a  thousand  things — 
yet,  chief  among  them,  those  occasional  reversions  when 
he  had  felt  he  "loved  her  again."  Had  he  not,  after  all, 
deceived  himself?  Had  she  ever  really  "faded"  at  all? 
Had  he  not  felt  he  ought  to  let  her  fade — release  her 
that  way?  And  the  change  in  himself? — that  sentence 
on  the  Californian  fruit- farm — what  did  they  mean? 
Which  had  been  true,  the  fading  or  the  love? 

The  confusion  in  his  mind  was  hopeless,  but,  as  a 
matter  of  fact,  he  did  not  think  at  all :  he  only  felt.  The 
momentum,  besides,  was  irresistible,  and  before  the  shat- 
tering onset  of  the  sweet  revival  he  did  not  stop  to  ana- 
lyse the  strange  result.  He  knew  certain  things,  and 
cared  to  know  no  others :  that  his  heart  was  leaping,  his 
blood  running  with  the  heat  of  twenty,  that  joy  recap- 
tured him,  that  he  must  see,  hear,  touch  her,  hold  her  in 
his  arms — and  marry  her.  For  the  fifteen  years  had 
crumbled  to  a  little  thing,  and  at  thirty-five  he  felt  him- 
self but  twenty,  rapturously,  deliciously  in  love. 

He  went  quickly,  eagerly  down  the  little  street  to  the 
inn,  still  feeling  only,  not  thinking  anything.  The  vehe- 
ment uprush  of  the  old  emotion  made  reflection  of  any 
kind  impossible.  He  gave  no  further  thought  to  those 
long  years  "out  there,"  when  her  name,  her  letters,  the 
very  image  of  her  in  his  mind,  had  found  him,  if  not 
cold,  at  least  without  keen  response.  All  that  was  for- 
gotten as  though  it  had  not  been.  The  steadfast  thing 
in  him,  this  strong  holding  to  a  promise  which  had  never 
wilted,  ousted  the  recollection  of  fading  and  decay  that, 
whatever  caused  them,  certainly  had  existed.  And  this 
steadfast  thing  now  took  command.  This  enduring  qual- 
ity in  his  character  led  him.  It  was  only  towards  the 
end  of  the  hurried  tea  he  first  received  the  singular  im- 
pression— vague,  indeed,  but  undeniably  persistent — the 
strange  impression  that  he  was  being  led. 

Yet,  though  aware  of  this,  he  did  not  pause  to  argue 
or  reflect.    The  emotional  displacement  in  him.  of  course, 


The  Tryst  7 

had  been  more  than  considerable :  there  had  been  up- 
heaval, a  change  whose  abruptness- was  even  dislocating, 
fundamental  in  a  sense  he  could  not  estimate — shock. 
Yet  he  took  no  count  of  anything  but  the  one  mastering 
desire  to  get  to  her  as  soon  as  possible,  knock  at  the 
small,  white  garden  gate,  hear  her  answering  voice,  see 
the  low  wooden  door  swing  open — take  her.  There  was 
joy  and  glory  in  his  heart,  and  a  yearning  sweet  delight. 
At  this  very  moment  she  was  expecting  him.  And  he 
— had  come. 

Behind  these  positive  emotions,  however,  there  lay 
concealed  all  the  time  others  that  were  of  a  negative  char- 
acter. Consciously,  he  was  not  aware  of  them,  but  they 
were  there;  they  revealed  their  presence  in  various  little 
ways  that  puzzled  him.  He  recognised  them  absent- 
mindedly,  as  it  were ;  did  not  analyse  or  investigate  them. 
For,  through  the  confusion  upon  his  faculties,  rose  also 
a  certain  hint  of  insecurity  that  betrayed  itself  by  a  slight 
hesitancy  or  miscalculation  in  one  or  two  unimportant 
actions.  There  was  a  touch  of  melancholy,  too,  a  sense 
of  something  lost.  It  lay,  perhaps,  in  that  tinge  of  sad- 
ness which  accompanies  the  twilight  of  an  autumn  day, 
when  a  gentler,  mournful  beauty  veils  a  greater  beauty 
that  is  past.  Some  trick  of  memory  connected  it  with  a 
scene  of  early  boyhood,  when,  meaning  to  see  the  sun- 
rise, he  overslept,  and,  by  a  brief  half-hour,  was  just — 
too  late.  He  noted  it  merely,  then  passed  on ;  he  did  not 
understand  it;  he  hurried  all  the  more,  this  hurry  the 
only  sign  that  it  was  noted.  "I  must  be  quick,"  flashed 
up  across  his  strongly  positive  emotions. 

And,  due  to  this  hurry,  possibly,  were  the  slight  mis- 
calculations that  he  made.  They  were  very  trivial.  He 
rang  for  sugar,  though  the  bowl  stood  just  before  his 
eyes,  yet  when  the  girl  came  in  he  forgot  completely  what 
he  rang  for — and  inquired  instead  about  the  evening 
trains  to  London.  And,  when  the  time-table  was  laid  be- 
fore him,  he  examined  it  without  intelligence,  then  looked 


8  Day  and  Night  Stories 

up  suddenly  into  the  maid's  face  with  a  question  about 
flowers.  Were  there  flowers  to  be  had  in  the  village 
anywhere?  What  kind  of  flowers?  "Oh,  a  bouquet  or 
a" — he  hesitated,  searching  for  a  word  that  tried  to 
present  itself,  yet  was  not  the  word  he  wanted  to  make 
use  of — "or  a  wreath — of  some  sort?"  he  finished.  He 
took  the  very  word  he  did  not  want  to  take.  In  several 
things  he  did  and  said,  this  hesitancy  and  miscalculation 
betrayed  themselves — such  trivial  things,  yet  significant  in 
an  elusive  way  that  he  disliked.  There  was  sadness,  in- 
security somewhere  in  them.  And  he  resented  them, 
aware  of  their  existence  only  because  they  qualified  his 
joy.  There  was  a  whispered  "No"  floating  somewhere 
in  the  dusk.  Almost — he  felt  disquiet.  He  hurried, 
more  and  more  eager  to  be  off  upon  his  journey — the 
final  part  of  it. 

Moreover,  there  were  other  signs  of  an  odd  miscalcula- 
tion— dislocation,  perhaps,  properly  speaking — in  him. 
Though  the  inn  was  familiar  from  his  boyhood  days, 
kept  by  the  same  old  couple,  too,  he  volunteered  no  in- 
formation about  himself,  nor  asked  a  single  question 
about  the  village  he  was  bound  for.  He  did  not  even 
inquire  if  the  rector — her  father — still  were  living.  And 
when  he  left  he  entirely  neglected  the  gilt-framed  mirror 
above  the  mantelpiece  of  plush,  dusty  pampas-grass  in 
waterless  vases  on  either  side.  It  did  not  matter,  ap- 
parently, whether  he  looked  well  or  ill,  tidy  or  untidy. 
He  forgot  that  when  his  cap  was  off  the  absence  of 
thick,  accustomed  hair  must  alter  him  considerably,  for- 
got also  that  two  fingers  were  missing  from  one  hand, 
the  right  hand,  the  hand  that  she  would  presently  clasp. 
Nor  did  it  occur  to  him  that  he  wore  glasses,  which 
must  change  his  expression  and  add  to  the  appearance 
of  the  years  he  bore.  None  of  these  obvious  and  natural 
things  seemed  to  come  into  his  thoughts  at  all.  He  was 
in  a  hurry  to  be  off.  He  did  not  think.  But,  though 
his   mind   may   not   have   noted    these   slight   betrayals 


The  Tryst  9 

with  actual  sentences,  his  attitude,  nevertheless,  expressed 
them.  This  was,  it  seemed,  the  feeling  in  him:  "What 
could  such  details  matter  to  her  now?  Why,  indeed, 
should  he  give  to  them  a  single  thought?  It  was  him- 
self she  loved  and  waited  for,  not  separate  items  of  his 
external,  physical  image."  As  well  think  of  the  fact 
that  she,  too,  must  have  altered — outwardly.  It  never 
once  occurred  to  him.  Such  details  were  of  To-day.  .  .  . 
He  was  only  impatient  to  come  to  her  quickly,  very 
quickly,  instantly,  if  possible.     He  hurried. 

There  was  a  flood  of  boyhood's  joy  in  him.  He  paid 
for  his  tea,  giving  a  tip  that  was  twice  the  price  of  the 
meal,  and  set  out  gaily  and  impetuously  along  the  wind- 
ing lane.  Charged  to  the  brim  with  a  sweet  picture  of  a 
small,  white  garden  gate,  the  loved  face  close  behind 
it,  he  went  forward  at  a  headlong  pace,  singing  "Nancy 
Lee"  as  he  used  to  sing  it  fifteen  years  before. 

With  action,  then,  the  negative  sensations  hid  them- 
selves, obliterated  by  the  positive  ones  that  took  com- 
mand. The  former,  however,  merely  lay  concealed ;  they 
waited.  Thus,  perhaps,  does  vital  emotion,  overlong  re- 
strained, denied,  indeed,  of  its  blossoming  altogether, 
take  revenge.  Repressed  elements  in  his  psychic  life  as- 
serted themselves,  selecting,  as  though  naturally,  a  dra- 
matic form. 

The  dusk  fell  rapidly,  mist  rose  in  floating  strips  along 
the  meadows  by  the  stream;  the  old,  familiar  details 
beckoned  him  forwards,  then  drove  him  from  behind  as 
he  went  swiftly  past  them.  He  recognised  others  rising 
through  the  thickening  air  beyond ;  they  nodded,  peered, 
and  whispered;  sometimes  they  almost  sang.  And  each 
added  to  his  inner  happiness;  each  brought  its  sweet 
and  precious  contribution,  and  built  it  into  the  recon- 
structed picture  of  the  earlier,  long- forgotten  rapture. 
It  was  an  enticing  and  enchanted  journey  that  he  made, 
something  impossibly  blissful  in  it,  something,  too,  that 
seemed  curiously — inevitable. 


10  Day  and  Night  Stories 

For  the  scenery  had  not  altered  all  these  years,  the 
details  of  the  country  were  unchanged,  everything  he 
saw  was  rich  with  dear  and  precious  association,  in- 
creasing the  momentum  of  the  tide  that  carried  him  along. 
Yonder  was  the  stile  over  whose  broken  step  he  had 
helped  her  yesterday,  and  there  the  slippery  plank  across 
the  stream  where  she  looked  above  her  shoulder  to  ask 
for  his  support;  he  saw  the  very  bramble  bushes  where 
she  scratched  her  hand,  a-blackberrying,  the  day  be- 
fore .  .  .  and,  finally,  the  weather-stained  signpost,  *'To 
the  Rectory."  It  pointed  to  the  path  through  the  dan- 
gerous field  where  Farmer  Sparrow's  bull  provided  such 
a  sweet  excuse  for  holding,  leading — protecting  her. 
From  the  entire  landscape  rose  a  steam  of  recent 
memory,  each  incident  alive,  each  little  detail  brimmed 
with  its  cargo  of  fond  association. 

He  read  the  rough  black  lettering  on  the  crooked 
arm — it  was  rather  faded,  but  he  knew  it  too  well  to 
miss  a  single  letter — and  hurried  forward  along  the 
muddy  track ;  he  looked  about  him  for  a  sign  of  Farmer 
Sparrow's  bull;  he  even  felt  in  the  misty  air  for  the 
little  hand  that  he  might  take  and  lead  her  into  safety. 
The  thought  of  her  drew  him  on  with  such  irresistible 
anticipation  that  it  seemed  as  if  the  cumulative  drive  of 
vanished  and  unsated  years  evoked  the  tangible  phantom 
almost.  He  actually  felt  it,  soft  and  warm  and  clinging 
in  his  own,  that  was  no  longer  incomplete  and  mutilated. 

Yet  it  was  not  he  who  led  and  guided  now,  but,  more 
and  more,  he  who  was  being  led.  The  hint  had  first 
betrayed  its  presence  at  the  inn;  it  now  openly  declared 
itself.  It  had  crossed  the  frontier  into  a  positive  sensa- 
tion. Its  growth,  swiftly  increasing  all  this  time,  had 
accomplished  itself;  he  had  ignored,  somehow,  both  its 
genesis  and  quick  development;  the  result  he  plainly 
recognised.  She  was  expecting  him,  indeed,  but  it  was 
more  than  expectation ;  there  was  calling  in  it — she  sum- 
moned him.    Her  thought  and  longing  reached  him  along 


The  Tryst  1 1 

that  old,  invisible  track  love  builds  so  easily  between 
true,  faithful  hearts.  All  the  forces  of  her  being,  her 
very  voice,  came  towards  him  through  the  deepening 
autumn  twilight.  He  had  not  noticed  the  curious  physical 
restoration  in  his  hand,  but  he  was  vividly  aware  of  this 
more  magical  alteration — that  she  led  and  guided  him, 
drawing  him  ever  more  swiftly  towards  the  little,  white 
garden  gate  where  she  stood  at  this  very  moment,  wait- 
ing. Her  sweet  strength  compelled  him;  there  was  this 
new  touch  of  something  irresistible  about  the  familiar 
journey,  where  formerly  had  been  delicious  yielding 
only,  shy,  tentative  advance.    He  realised  it — inevitable. 

His  footsteps  hurried,  faster  and  ever  faster;  so  deep 
was  the  allurement  in  his  blood,  he  almost  ran.  He 
reached  the  narrow,  winding  lane,  and  raced  along  it. 
He,  knew  each  bend,  each  angle  of  the  holly  hedge,  each 
separate  incident  of  ditch  and  stone.  He  could  have 
plunged  blindfold  down  it  at  top  speed.  The  familiar 
perfumes  rushed  at  him — dead  leaves  and  mossy  earth 
and  ferns  and  dock  leaves,  bringing  the  bewildering 
currents  of  strong  emotion  in  him  all  together  as  in  a 
rising  wave.  He  saw,  then,  the  crumbling  wall,  the 
cedars  topping  it  with  spreading  branches,  the  chimneys 
of  the  rectory.  On  his  right  bulked  the  outline  of  the 
old,  grey  church;  the  twisted,  ancient  yews,  the  com- 
pany of  gravestones,  upright  and  leaning,  dotting  the 
ground  like  listening  figures.  But  he  looked  at  none  of 
these.  For,  on  his  left,  he  already  saw  the  five  rough 
steps  of  stone  that  led  from  the  lane  towards  a  small, 
white  garden  gate.  That  gate  at  last  shone  before  him, 
rising  through  the  misty  air.     He  reached  it. 

He  stopped  dead  a  moment.  His  heart,  it  seemed, 
stopped  too,  then  took  to  violent  hammering  in  his 
brain.  There  was  a  roaring  in  his  mind,  and  yet  a  marvel- 
lous silence — just  behind  it.  Then  the  roar  of  emo- 
tion died  away.     There  was  utter  stillness.     This  still- 


12  Day  and  Night  Stories 

ness,  silence,  was  all  about  him.  The  world  seemed  pre- 
ternaturally  quiet. 

But  the  pause  was  too  brief  to  measure.  For  the 
tide  of  emotion  had  receded  only  to  come  on  again  with 
redoubled  power.  He  turned,  leaped  forward,  clambered 
impetuously  up  the  rough  stone  steps,  and  flung  himself, 
breathless  and  exhausted,  against  the  trivial  barrier  that 
stood  between  his  eyes  and — hers.  In  his  wild,  half  vio- 
lent impatience,  however,  he  stumbled.  That  roaring, 
too,  confused  him.  He  fell  forward,  it  seemed,  for  twi- 
light had  merged  in  darkness,  and  he  misjudged  the 
steps,  the  distances  he  yet  knew  so  well.  For  a  moment, 
certainly,  he  lay  at  full  length  upon  the  uneven  ground 
against  the  wall;  the  steps  had  tripped  him.  And  then 
he  raised  himself  and  knocked.  His  right  hand  struck 
upon  the  small,  white  garden  gate.  Upon  the  two  lost 
fingers  he  felt  the  impact.  'T  am  here,"  he  cried,  with  a 
deep  sound  in  his  throat  as  though  utterance  was  choked 
and  difficult.     *T  have  come  back — to  find  you." 

For  a  fraction  of  a  second  he  waited,  while  the  world 
stood  still  and  waited  with  him.  But  there  was  no 
delay.  Her  answer  came  at  once :  'T  am  well.  ...  I 
am  happy.  ...  I  am  waiting." 

And  the  voice  was  dear  and  marvellous  as  of  old. 
Though  the  words  were  strange,  reminding  him  of  some- 
thing dreamed,  forgotten,  lost,  it  seemed,  he  did  not  take 
special  note  of  them.  He  only  wondered  that  she  did 
not  open  instantly  that  he  might  see  her.  Speech  could 
follow,  but  sight  came  surely  first!  There  was  this 
lightning-flash  of  disappointment  in  him.  Ah,  she  was 
lengthening  out  the  marvellous  moment,  as  often  and 
often  she  had  done  before.  It  was  to  tease  him  that  she 
made  him  wait.  He  knocked  again;  he  pushed  against 
the  unyielding  surface.  For  he  noticed  that  it  was  un- 
yielding; and  there  was  a  depth  in  the  tender  voice  that 
he  could  not  understand. 

"Open!"  he  cried  again,  but  louder  than  before.     'T 


The  Tryst  13 

have  come  back  to  find  you!"  And  as  he  said  it  the 
mist  struck  cold  and  thick  against  his  face. 

But  her  answer  froze  his  blood. 

"I  cannot  open." 

And  a  sudden  anguish  of  despair  rose  over  him;  the 
sound  of  her  voice  was  strange ;  in  it  was  faintness,  dis- 
tance— as  well  as  depth.  It  seemed  to  echo.  Something 
frantic  seized  him  then — the  panic  sense. 

"Open,  open!  Come  out  to  me!"  he  tried  to  shout. 
His  voice  failed  oddly ;  there  was  no  power  in  it.  Some- 
thing appalling  struck  him  between  the  eyes.  "For 
God's  sake,  open.  I'm  waiting  here!  Open,  and  come 
out  to  me !" 

The  reply  was  muffled  by  distance  that  already  seemed 
increasing;  he  was  conscious  of  freezing  cold  about 
him — in  his  heart. 

"I  cannot  open.  You  must  come  in  to  me.  I'm  here 
and — waiting — always." 

He  knew  not  exactly  then  what  happened,  for  the 
cold  grew  deeper  and  the  icy  mist  was  in  his  throat.  No 
words  would  come.  He  rose  to  his  knees,  and  from  his 
knees  to  his  feet.  He  stooped.  With  all  his  force  he 
knocked  again;  in  a  blind  frenzy  of  despair  he  ham- 
mered and  beat  against  the  unyielding  barrier  of  the 
small,  white  garden  gate.  He  battered  it  till  the  skin 
of  his  knuckles  was  torn  and  bleeding — the  first  two 
fingers  of  a  hand  already  mutilated.  He  remembers 
the  torn  and  broken  skin,  for  he  noticed  in  the  gloom 
that  stains  upon  the  gate  bore  witness  to  his  violence; 
it  was  not  till  afterwards  that  he  remembered  the  other 
fact — that  the  hand  had  already  suffered  mutilation,  long, 
long  years  ago.  The  power  of  sound  was  feebly  in  him ; 
he  called  aloud;  there  was  no  answer.  He  tried  to 
scream,  but  the  scream  was  muffled  in  his  throat  before 
it  issued  properly ;  it  was  a  nightmare  scream.  As  a  last 
resort  he  flung  himself  bodily  upon  the  unyielding  gate, 


14  Day  and  Night  Stories 

with  such  precipitate  violence,  moreover,  that  his  face 
struck  against  its  surface. 

From  the  friction,  then,  along  the  whole  length  of 
his  cheek  he  knew  that  the  surface  was  not  smooth. 
Cold  and  rough  that  surface  was;  but  also — it  was  not 
of  wood.  Moreover,  there  was  writing  on  it  he  had 
not  seen  before.  How  he  deciphered  it  in  the  gloom,  he 
never  knew.  The  lettering  was  deeply  cut.  Perhaps 
he  traced  it  with  his  fingers;  his  right  hand  certainly 
lay  stretched  upon  it.  He  made  out  a  name,  a  date,  a 
broken  verse  from  the  Bible,  and  the  words,  "died  peace- 
fully." The  lettering  was  sharply  cut  with  edges  that 
were  new.  For  the  date  was  of  a  week  ago ;  the  broken 
verse  ran,  "When  the  shadows  flee  away  .  .  ."  and  the 
small,  white  garden  gate  was  unyielding  because  it  was 
of — stone. 

At  the  inn  he  found  himself  staring  at  a  table  from 
which  the  tea  things  had  not  been  cleared  away.  There 
was  a  railway  time-table  in  his  hands,  and  his  head  was 
bent  forwards  over  it,  trying  to  decipher  the  lettering 
in  the  growing  twilight.  Beside  him,  still  fingering  a 
shilling,  stood  the  serving-girl;  her  other  hand  held  a 
brown  tray  with  a  running  dog  painted  upon  its  dented 
surface.  It  swung  to  and  fro  a  little  as  she  spoke,  evi- 
dently continuing  a  conversation  her  customer  had  be- 
gun. For  she  was  giving  information — in  the  colourless, 
disinterested  voice  such  persons  use: 

"We  all  went  to  the  funeral,  sir,  all  the  country  peo- 
ple went.  The  grave  was  her  father's — the  family 
grave.  .  .  ."  Then,  seeing  that  her  customer  was  too 
absorbed  in  the  time-table  to  listen  further,  she  said  no 
more  but  began  to  pile  the  tea  things  on  to  the  tray  with 
noisy  clatter. 

Ten  minutes  later,  in  the  road,  he  stood  hesitating. 
The  signal  at  the  station  just  opposite  was  already  down. 
The  autumn  mist   was   rising.     He   looked   along  the 


The  Tryst  15 

winding  road  that  melted  away  into  the  distance,  then 
slowly  turned  and  reached  the  platform  just  as  the 
London  train  came  in.  He  felt  very  old — too  old  to  walk 
six  miles.  .  .  . 


II 

THE  TOUCH  OF  PAN 


An  idiot,  Heber  understood,  was  a  person  in  whom  in- 
telligence had  been  arrested — instinct  acted,  but  not  rea- 
son. A  lunatic,  on  the  other  hand,  was  some  one  whose 
reason  had  gone  awry — the  mechanism  of  the  brain  was 
injured.  The  lunatic  was  out  of  relation  with  his  en- 
vironment; the  idiot  had  merely  been  delayed  en  route. 

Be  that  a?  it  might,  he  knew  at  any  rate  that  a  lunatic 
was  not  to  be  listened  to,  whereas  an  idiot — well,  the 
one  he  fell  in  love  with  certainly  had  the  secret  of  some 
instinctual  knowledge  that  was  not  only  joy,  but  a  kind 
of  sheer  natural  joy.  Probably  it  was  that  sheer  natural 
joy  of  living  that  reason  argues  to  be  untaught,  degraded. 
In  any  case — at  thirty — he  married  her  instead  of  the 
daughter  of  a  duchess  he  was  engaged  to.  They  lead 
to-day  that  happy,  natural,  vagabond  life  called  idiotic, 
unmindful  of  that  world  the  majority  of  reasonable  peo- 
ple live  only  to  remember. 

Though  born  into  an  artificial  social  clique  that  made 
it  difficult,  Heber  had  always  loved  the  simple  things. 
Nature,  especially,  meant  much  to  him.  He  would  rather 
see  a  woodland  misty  with  bluebells  than  all  the  chateaux 
on  the  Loire;  the  thought  of  a  mountain  valley  in  the 
dawn  made  his  feet  lonely  in  the  grandest  houses.  Yet 
in  these  very  houses  was  his  home  established.  Not  that 
he  under-estimated  worldly  things — their  value  was  too 
obvious — but  that  it  was  another  thing  he  wanted.  Only 
he  did  not  know  precisely  what  he  wanted  until  this  par- 
ticular idiot  made  it  plain. 

i6 


The  Touch  of  Pan  17 

Her  case  was  a  mild  one,  possibly;  the  title  bestowed 
by  implication  rather  than  by  specific  mention.  Her 
family  did  not  say  that  she  was  imbecile  or  half-witted, 
but  that  she  *'was  not  all  there"  they  probably  did  say. 
Perhaps  she  saw  men  as  trees  walking,  perhaps  she  saw 
through  a  glass  darkly.  Heber,  who  had  met  her  once 
or  twice,  though  never  yet  to  speak  to,  did  not  analyse 
her  degree  of  sight,  for  in  him,  personally,  she  woke 
a  secret  joy  and  wonder  that  almost  involved  a  touch 
of  awe.  The  part  of  her  that  was  not  "all  there"  dwelt 
in  an  "elsewhere"  that  he  longed  to  know  about.  He 
wanted  to  share  it  with  her.  She  seemed  aware  of  cer- 
tain happy  and  desirable  things  ^  that  reason  and  too 
much  thinking  hide. 

He  just  felt  this  instinctively  without  analysis.  The 
values  they  set  upon  the  prizes  of  life  were  similar. 
Money  to  her  was  just  stamped  metal,  fame  a  loud 
noise  of  sorts,  position  nothing.  Of  people  she  was 
aware  as  a  dog  or  bird  might  be  aware — they  were  kind 
or  unkind.  Her  parents,  having  collected  much  metal 
and  achieved  position,  proceeded  to  make  a  loud  noise  of 
sorts  with  some  success ;  and  since  she  did  not  contribute, 
either  by  her  appearance  or  her  tastes,  to  their  ambi- 
tions, they  neglected  her  and  made  excuses.  They  were 
ashamed  of  her  existence.  Her  father  in  particular  justi- 
fied Nietzsche's  shrewd  remark  that  no  one  with  a  loud 
voice  can  listen  to  subtle  thoughts. 

She  was,  perhaps,  sixteen — for,  though  she  looked 
it,  eighteen  or  nineteen  was  probably  more  in  accord 
with  her  birth  certificate.  Her  mother  was  content, 
however,  that  she  should  dress  the  lesser  age,  pre- 
ferring to  tell  strangers  that  she  was  childish,  rather 
than  admit  that  she  was  backward. 

"You'll  never  marry  at  all,  child,  much  less  marry 
as  you  might,"  she  said,  "if  you  go  about  with  that  rabbit 
expression  on  your  face.  That's  not  the  \Yay  to  catch  a 
nice  young  man  of  the  sort  we  get  down  to  stay  with 


1 8  Day  and  Night  Stories 

us  now.  Many  a  chorus-girl  with  less  than  you've  got 
has  caught  them  easily  enough.  Your  sister's  done  well. 
Why  not  do  the  same?  There's  nothing  to  be  shy  or 
frightened  about." 

"But  I'm  not  shy  or  frightened,  mother.  I'm  bored. 
I  mean  they  bore  me." 

It  made  no  difference  to  the  girl ;  she  was  herself.  The 
bored  expression  in  the  eyes — the  rabbit,  not-all-there 
expression — ^gave  place  sometimes  to  another  look.  Yet 
not  often,  nor  with  anybody.  It  was  this  other  look 
that  stirred  the  strange  joy  in  the  man  who  fell  in  love 
with  her.  It  is  not  to  be  easily  described.  It  was  very 
wonderful.  Whether  sixteen  or  nineteen,  she  then 
looked — a  thousand. 

The  house-party  was  of  that  up-to-date  kind  prevalent 
in  Heber's  world.  Husbands  and  wives  were  not  asked 
together.  There  was  a  cynical  disregard  of  the  decent 
(not  the  stupid)  conventions  that  savoured  of  abandon, 
perhaps  of  decadence.  He  only  went  himself  in  the 
hope  of  seeing  the  backward  daughter  once  again.  Her 
millionaire  parents  afflicted  him,  the  smart  folk  tired 
him.  Their  peculiar  affectation  of  a  special  language, 
their  strange  beHef  that  they  were  of  importance,  their 
treatment  of  the  servants,  their  calculated  self-indulgence, 
all  jarred  upon  him  more  than  usual.  At  bottom  he 
heartily  despised  the  whole  vapid  set.  He  felt  uncom- 
fortable and  out  of  place.  Though  not  a  prig,  he  ab- 
horred the  way  these  folk  believed  themselves  the  climax 
of  fine  living.  Their  open  immorality  disgusted  him, 
their  indiscriminate  love-making  was  merely  rather  nasty  ; 
he  watched  the  very  girl  he  was  at  last  to  settle  down 
with  behaving  as  the  tone  of  the  clique  expected  over 
her  final  fling — and,  bored  by  the  strain  of  so  much 
"modernity,"  he  tried  to  get  away.  Tea  was  long  over, 
the  sunset  interval  invited,  he  felt  hungry  for  trees 
and  fields  that  were  not  self-conscious — and  he  escaped. 


The  Touch  of  Pan  19 

The  flaming  June  day  was  turning  chill.  Dusk  hovered 
over  the  ancient  house,  veiling  the  pretentious  new  wing 
that  had  been  added.  And  he  came  across  the  idiot  girl 
at  the  bend  of  the  drive,  where  the  birch  trees  shivered 
in  the  evening  wind.    His  heart  gave  a  leap. 

She  was  leaning  against  one  of  the  dreadful  statues — 
it  was  a  satyr — that  sprinkled  the  lawn.  Her  back  was 
to  him ;  she  gazed  at  a  group  of  broken  pine  trees  in  the 
park  beyond.  He  paused  an  instant,  then  went  on  quickly, 
while  his  mind  scurried  to  recall  her  name.  They  were 
within  easy  speaking  range. 

"Miss  Elizabeth !"  he  cried,  yet  not  too  loudly  lest  she 
might  vanish  as  suddenly  as  she  had  appeared.  She 
turned  at  once.  Her  eyes  and  lips  were  smiling  wel- 
come at  him  without  pretence.  She  showed  no  sur- 
prise. 

"You're  the  first  one  of  the  lot  who's  said  it  properly," 
she  exclaimed,  as  he  came  up.  ''Everybody  calls  me 
Elizabeth  instead  of  Elspeth.  It's  idiotic.  They  don't 
even  take  the  trouble  to  get  a  name  right." 

"It  is,"  he  agreed.  "Quite  idiotic."  He  did  not  cor- 
rect her.  Possibly  he  had  said  Elspeth  after  all — the 
names  were  similar.  Her  perfectly  natural  voice  was 
grateful  to  his  ear,  and  soothing.  He  looked  at  her  all 
over  with  an  open  admiration  that  she  noticed  and,  with- 
out concealment,  liked.  She  was  very  untidy,  the  grey 
stockings  on  her  vigorous  legs  were  torn,  her  short  skirt 
was  spattered  with  mud.  Her  nut-brown  hair,  glossy 
and  plentiful,  flew  loose  about  neck  and  shoulders.  In 
place  of  the  usual  belt  she  had  tied  a  coloured  handker- 
chief round  her  waist.  She  wore  no  hat.  What  she  had 
been  doing  to  get  in  such  a  state,  while  her  parents  en- 
tertained a  "distinguished"  party,  he  did  not  know,  but 
it  was  not  difficult  to  guess.  Climbing  trees  or  riding 
bareback  and  astride  was  probably  the  truth.  Yet  her 
dishevelled  state  became  her  well,  and  the  welcome  in  her 
face  delighted  him.    She  remembered  him,  she  was  glad. 


20  Day  and  Night  Stories 

He,  too,  was  glad,  and  a  sense  both  happy  and  reckless 
stirred  in  his  heart.  **Like  a  wild  animal,"  he  said,  "you 
come  out  in  the  dusk " 

"To  play  with  my  kind,"  she  answered  in  a  flash, 
throwing  him  a  glance  of  invitation  that  made  his  blood 
go  dancing. 

He  leaned  against  the  statue  a  moment,  asking  him- 
self why  this  young  Cinderella  of  a  parvenu  family  de- 
lighted him  when  all  the  London  beauties  left  him  cold. 
There  was  a  lift  through  his  whole  being  as  he  watched 
her,  slim  and  supple,  grace  shining  through  the  untidy 
modern  garb — almost  as  though  she  wore  no  clothes. 
He  thought  of  a  panther  standing  upright.  Her  poise 
was  so  alert — one  arm  upon  the  marble  ledge,  one  leg 
bent  across  the  other,  the  hip-line  showing  like  a  bird's 
curved  wing.  Wild  animal  or  bird,  flashed  across  his 
mind :  something  untamed  and  natural.  Another  second, 
and  she  might  leap  away — or  spring  into  his  arms. 

It  was  a  deep,  stirring  sensation  in  him  that  produced 
the  mental  picture.  "Pure  and  natural,"  a  voice  whis- 
pered with  it  in  his  heart,  "as  surely  as  they  are  just 
the  other  thing!"  And  the  thrill  struck  with  unerring 
aim  at  the  very  root  of  that  unrest  he  had  always  known 
in  the  state  of  life  to  which  he  was  called.  She  made  it 
natural,  clean,  and  pure.  This  girl  and  himself  were 
somehow  kin.     The  primitive  thing  broke  loose  in  him. 

In  two  seconds,  while  he  stood  with  her  beside  the 
vulgar  statue,  these  thoughts  passed  through  his  mind. 
But  he  did  not  at  first  give  utterance  to  any  of  them.  He 
spoke  more  formally,  although  laughter,  due  to  his 
happiness,  lay  behind : 

"They  haven't  asked  you  to  the  party,  then?  Or  you 
don't  care  about  it  ?    Which  is  it  ?" 

"Both,"  she  said,  looking  fearlessly  into  his  face.  "But 
I've  been  here  ten  minutes  already.  Why  were  you  so 
long?" 

This  outspoken  honesty  was  hardly  what  he  expected, 


The  Touch  of  Pan  21 

yet  in  another  sense  he  was  not  surprised.  Her  eyes 
were  very  penetrating,  very  innocent,  very  frank.  He 
felt  her  as  clean  and  sweet  as  some  young  fawn  that 
asks  plainly  to  be  stroked  and  fondled.  He  told  the  truth  : 
"I    couldn't   get    away   before.      I    had    to   play    about 

and "  when  she  interrupted  with  impatience : 

''They  don't  really  want  you,"  she  exclaimed  scorn- 
fully.   "I  do." 

And,  before  he  could  choose  one  out  of  the  several 
answers  that  rushed  into  his  mind,  she  nudged  him  with 
her  foot,  holding  it  out  a  little  so  that  he  saw  the  shoe- 
lace was  unfastened.  She  nodded  her  head  towards  it, 
and  pulled  her  skirt  up  half  an  inch  as  he  at  once  stooped 
down. 

"And,  anyhow,"  she  went  on  as  he  fumbled  with  the 
lace,  touching  her  ankle  with  his  hand,  ''you're  going  to 
marry  one  of  them.  I  read  it  in  the  paper.  It's  idiotic. 
You'll  be  miserable." 

The  blood  rushed  to  his  head,  but  whether  owing  to 
his  stooping  or  to  something  else,  he  could  not  say. 

*'I  only  came — I  only  accepted,"  he  said  quickly,  ''be- 
cause I  wanted  to  see  you  again." 

"Of  course.  I  made  mother  ask  you." 
He  did  an  impulsive  thing.  Kneeling  as  he  was,  he 
bent  his  head  a  little  lower  and  suddenly  kissed  the  soft 
grey  stocking — then  stood  up  and  looked  her  in  the 
face.  She  was  laughing  happily,  no  sign  of  embarrass- 
ment in  her  anywhere,  no  trace  of  outraged  modesty. 
She  just  looked  very  pleased. 

"I've    tied    a    knot    that    won't    come    undone    in    a 

hurry "  he  began,  then  stopped  dead.     For  as  he 

said  it,  gazing  into  her  smiling  face,  another  expression 
looked  forth  at  him  from  the  two  big  eyes  of  hazel. 
Something  rushed  from  his  heart  to  meet  it.  It  may  have 
been  that  playful  kiss,  it  may  have  been  the  way  she  took 
it;  but,  at  any  rate,  there  was  a  strength  in  the  new 
emotion  that  made  him  unsure  of  who  he  was  and  of 


22  Day  and  Night  Stories 

whom  he  looked  at.  He  forgot  the  place,  the  time,  his 
own  identity  and  hers.  The  lawn  swept  from  beneath  his 
feet,  the  English  sunset  with  it.  He  forgot  his  host 
and  hostess,  his  fellow  guests,  even  his  father's  name 
and  his  own  into  the  bargain.  He  was  carried  away 
upon  a  great  tide,  the  girl  always  beside  him.  He  left 
the  shore-line  in  the  distance,  already  half  forgotten,  the 
shore-line  of  his  education,  learning,  manners,  social 
point  of  view^ — everything  to  which  his  father  had  most 
carefully  brought  him  up  as  the  scion  of  an  old-estab- 
lished English  family.  This  girl  had  torn  up  the  anchor. 
Only  the  anchor  had  previously  been  loosened  a  little 
by  his  own  unconscious  and  restless  efforts.  .  .  . 

Where  was  she  taking  him  to?  Upon  what  island 
would  they  land? 

*T'm  younger  than  you — a  good  deal,"  she  broke  in 
upon  his  rushing  mood.  "But  that  doesn't  matter  a 
bit,  does  it?    We're  about  the  same  age  really." 

With  the  happy  sound  of  her  voice  the  extraordinary 
sensation  passed — or,  rather,  it  became  normal.  But  that 
it  had  lasted  an  appreciable  time  was  proved  by  the 
fact  that  they  had  left  the  statue  on  the  lawn,  the  house 
was  no  longer  visible  behind  them,  and  they  were  walking 
side  by  side  between  the  massive  rhododendron  clumps. 
They  brought  up  against  a  five-barred  gate  into  the  park. 
They  leaned  upon  the  topmost  bar,  and  he  felt  her 
shoulder  touching  his — edging  into  it — as  they  looked 
across  to  the  grove  of  pines. 

*T  feel  absurdly  young,"  he  said  without  a  sign  of 
affectation,  "and  yet  I've  been  looking  for  you  a  thou- 
sand years  and  more." 

The  afterglow  lit  up  her  face ;  it  fell  on  her  loose  hair 
and  tumbled  blouse,  turning  them  amber  red.  She 
looked  not  only  soft  and  comely,  but  extraordinarily 
beautiful.  The  strange  expression  haunted  the  deep  eyes 
again,  the  lips  were  a  little  parted,  the  young  breast  heav- 
ing slightly,  joy  and  excitement  in  her  whole  present- 


I 


The  Touch  of  Pan  23 

ment.  And  as  he  watched  her  he  knew  that  all  he  had 
just  felt  was  due  to  her  close  presence,  to  her  atmos- 
phere, her  perfume,  her  physical  warmth  and  vigour.  It 
had  emanated  directly  from  her  being. 

*'Of  course,"  she  said,  and  laughed  so  that  he  felt 
her  breath  upon  his  face.  He  bent  lower  to  bring  his 
own  on  a  level,  gazing  straight  into  her  eyes  that  were 
fixed  upon  the  field  beyond.  They  were  clear  and 
luminous  as  pools  of  water,  and  in  their  centre,  sharp  as 
a  photograph,  he  saw  the  reflection  of  the  pine  grove, 
perhaps  a  hundred  yards  away.  With  detailed  accuracy 
he  saw  it,  empty  and  motionless  in  the  glimmering  June 
dusk. 

Then  something  caught  his  eye.  He  examined  the 
picture  more  closely.  He  drew  slightly  nearer.  He  al- 
most touched  her  face  with  his  own,  forgetting  for  a 
moment  whose  were  the  eyes  that  served  him  for  a 
mirror.  For,  looking  intently  thus,  it  seemed  to  him 
that  there  was  a  movement,  a  passing  to  and  fro,  a 
stirring  as  of  figures  among  the  trees.  .  .  .  Then  sud- 
denly the  entire  picture  was  obliterated.  She  had  dropped 
her  lids.  He  heard  her  speaking — the  warm  breath  w^.^ 
again  upon  his  face: 

"In  the  heart  of  that  wood  dwell  I." 

His  heart  gave  another  leap — more  violent  than  the 
first — for  the  wonder  and  beauty  of  the  sentence  caught 
him  like  a  spell.  There  was  a  lilt  and  rhythm  in  the 
words  that  made  it  poetry.  She  laid  emphasis  upon  the 
pronoun  and  the  nouns.  It  seemed  the  last  line  of  some 
delicious  runic  verse: 

'Tn  the  heart  of  the  wood — dwell  /.  .  .  ." 

And  it  flashed  across  him:  That  living,  moving,  in- 
habited pine  wood  was  her  thought.  It  was  thus  she 
saw  it.  Her  nature  flung  back  to  a  life  she  understood,  a 
life  that  needed,  claimed  her.  The  ostentatious  and 
artificial  values  that  surrounded  her,  she  denied,  even 
as    the    distinguished    house-party    of    her    ambitious, 


24  Day  and  Night  Stories 

masquerading  family  neglected  her.  Of  course  she  was 
unnoticed  by  them,  just  as  a  swallow  or  a  wild-rose 
were  unnoticed. 

He  knew  her  secret  then,  for  she  had  told  it  to  him. 
It  was  his  own  secret  too.  They  were  akin,  as  the  birds 
and  animals  were  akin.  They  belonged  together  in  some 
free  and  open  life,  natural,  wild,  untamed.  That  un- 
hampered life  was  flowing  about  them  now,  rising,  beat- 
ing with  delicious  tumult  in  her  veins  and  his,  yet  inno- 
cent as  the  sunlight  and  the  wind — because  it  was  as 
freely  recognised. 

"Elspeth !"  he  cried,  "come,  take  me  with  you !  We'll 
go  at  once.  Come — hurry — before  we  forget  to  be  happy, 
or  remember  to  be  wise  again !" 

His  words  stopped  half-way  towards  completion,  for  a 
perfume  floated  past  him,  born  of  the  summer  dusk, 
perhaps,  yet  sweet  with  a  penetrating  magic  that  made 
his  senses  reel  with  some  remembered  joy.  No  flower, 
no  scented  garden  bush  delivered  it.  It  was  the  perfume 
of  young,  spendthrift  life,  sweet  with  the  purity  that  rea- 
son had  not  yet  stained.  The  girl  moved  closer.  Gather- 
ing her  loose  hair  between  her  fingers,  she  brushed  his 
cheeks  and  eyes  with  it,  her  slim,  warm  body  pressing 
against  him  as  she  leaned  over  laughingly. 

"In  the  darkness,"  she  whispered  in  his  ear;  "when 
the  moon  puts  the  house  upon  the  statue !" 

And  he  understood.  Her  world  lay  behind  the  vulgar, 
staring  day.  He  turned.  He  heard  the  flutter  of  skirts — 
just  caught  the  grey  stockings,  swift  and  light,  as  they 
flew  behind  the  rhododendron  masses.  And  she  was 
gone. 

He  stood  a  long  time,  leaning  upon  that  five-barred 
gate.  ...  It  was  the  dressing-gong  that  recalled  him  at 
length  to  what  seemed  the  present.  By  the  conservatory 
door,  as  he  went  slowly  in,  he  met  his  distinguished 
cousin — ^who  was  helping  the  girl  he  himself  was  to 
marry  to  enjoy  her  "final  fling."    He  looked  at  his  cousin. 


The  Touch  of  Pan  25 

He  realised  suddenly  that  he  was  merely  vicious.  There 
was  no  sun  and  wind,  no  flowers — there  was  depravity 
only,  lust  instead  of  laughter,  excitement  in  place  of 
happiness.  It  was  calculated,  not  spontaneous.  His  mind 
was  in  it.     Without  joy  it  was.     He  was  not  natural. 

"Not  a  girl  in  the  whole  lot  fit  to  look  at,"  he  ex- 
claimed with  peevish  boredom,  excusing  himself  stupidly 
for  his  illicit  conduct.  "Vm  off  in  the  morning."  He 
shrugged  his  blue-blooded  shoulders.  "These  million- 
aires! Their  shooting's  all  right,  but  their  mixum-gath- 
erum  week-ends — bah!"  His  gesture  completed  all  he 
had  to  say  about  this  one  in  particular.  He  glanced 
sharply,  nastily,  at  his  companion.  ''You  look  as  if 
you'd  found  something!"  he  added,  with  a  suggestive 
grin.  "Or  have  you  seen  the  ghost  that  was  paid  for 
with  the  house?"  And  he  guffawed  and  let  his  eyeglass 
drop.  "Lady  Hermione  will  be  asking  for  an  explana- 
tion— eh  ?" 

"Idiot!"  replied  Heber,  and  ran  upstairs  to  dress  for 
dinner. 

But  the  word  was  wrong,  he  remembered,  as  he  closed 
his  door.  It  was  lunatic  he  had  meant  to  say,  yet  some- 
thing more  as  well.  He  saw  the  smart,  modern 
philanderer  somehow  as  a  beast. 


It  was  nearly  midnight  when  he  went  up  to  bed,  after 
an  evening  of  intolerable  amusement.  The  abandoned 
moral  attitude,  the  common  rudeness,  the  contempt  of  all 
others  but  themselves,  the  ugly  jests,  the  horseplay  of 
tasteless  minds  that  passed  for  gaiety,  above  all  the 
shamelessness  of  the  women  that  behind  the  cover  of 
fine  breeding  aped  emancipation,  afflicted  him  to  a  bore- 
dom that  touched  desperation. 

He  understood  now  with  a  clarity  unknown  before. 
As  with  his  cousin,  so  with  these.     They  took  life,  he 


26  Day  and  Night  Stories 

saw,  with  a  brazen  effrontery  they  thought  was  freedom, 
while  yet  it  was  life  that  they  denied.  He  felt  vampired 
and  degraded;  spontaneity  went  out  of  him.  The  fact 
that  the  geography  of  bedrooms  was  studied  openly 
seemed  an  affirmation  of  vice  that  sickened  him.  Their 
ways  were  nauseous  merely.     He  escaped — unnoticed. 

He  locked  his  door,  went  to  the  open  window,  and 
looked  out  into  the  night — then  started.  For  silver 
dressed  the  lawn  and  park,  the  shadow  of  the  building 
lay  dark  across  the  elaborate  garden,  and  the  moon,  he 
noticed,  was  just  high  enough  to  put  the  house  upon 
the  statue.  The  chimney-stacks  edged  the  pedestal  pre- 
cisely. 

"Odd!"  he  exclaimed.     ''Odd  that  I  should  come  at 

the  very  moment !"  then  smiled  as  he  realised  how 

his  proposed  adventure  would  be  misinterpreted,  its 
natural  innocence  and  spirit  ruined — if  he  were  seen. 
"And  some  one  would  be  sure  to  see  me  on  a  night 
like  this.  There  are  couples  still  hanging  about  in  the 
garden."  And  he  glanced  at  the  shrubberies  and  secret 
paths  that  seemed  to  float  upon  the  warm  June  air  like 
islands. 

He  stood  for  a  moment  framed  in  the  glare  of  the  elec- 
tric light,  then  turned  back  into  the  room;  and  at  that 
instant  a  low  sound  like  a  bird-call  rose  from  the  lawn 
below.  It  was  soft  and  flutey,  as  though  some  one  played 
two  notes  upon  a  reed,  a  piping  sound.  He  had  been 
seen,  and  she  was  waiting  for  him.  Before  he  knew  it, 
he  had  made  an  answering  call,  of  oddly  similar  kind, 
then  switched  the  light  out.  Three  minutes  later,  dressed 
in  simpler  clothes,  with  a  cap  pulled  over  his  eyes,  he 
reached  the  back  lawn  by  means  of  the  conservatory  and 
the  billiard-room.  He  paused  a  moment  to  look  about 
him.  There  was  no  one,  although  the  lights  were  still 
ablaze.  "I  am  an  idiot,"  he  chuckled  to  himself.  "I'm 
acting  on  instinct!"     He  ran. 

The  sweet  night  air  bathed  him  from  head  to  foot; 


The  Touch  of  Pan  27 

there  was  strength  and  cleansing  in  it.  The  lawn  shone 
wet  with  dew.  He  could  almost  smell  the  perfume  of  the 
stars.  The  fumes  of  wine,  cigars  and  artificial  scent 
were  left  behind,  the  atmosphere  exhaled  by  civilisation, 
by  heavy  thoughts,  by  bodies  overdressed,  unwisely  stimu- 
lated— all,  all  forgotten.  He  passed  into  a  world  of 
magical  enchantment.  The  hush  of  the  open  sky  came 
down.  In  black  and  white  the  garden  lay,  brimmed  full 
with  beauty,  shot  by  the  ancient  silver  of  the  moon,  span- 
gled with  the  stars'  old-gold.  And  the  night  wind 
rustled  in  the  rhododendron  masses  as  he  flew  between 
them. 

In  a  moment  he  was  beside  the  statue,  engulfed  now 
by  the  shadow  of  the  building,  and  the  girl  detached 
herself  silently  from  the  blur  of  darkness.  Two  arms 
were  flung  about  his  neck,  a  shower  of  soft  hair  fell  on 
his  cheek  with  a  heady  scent  of  earth  and  leaves  and 
grass,  and  the  same  instant  they  were  away  together  at 
full  speed — towards  the  pine  wood.  Their  feet  were 
soundless  on  the  soaking  grass.  They  went  so  swiftly 
that  they  made  a  whir  of  following  wind  that  blew  her 
hair  across  his  eyes. 

And  the  sudden  contrast  caused  a  shock  that  put  a 
blank,  perhaps,  upon  his  mind,  so  that  he  lost  the  standard 
of  remembered  things.  For  it  was  no  longer  merely  a 
particular  adventure;  it  seemed  a  habit  and  a  natural 
joy  resumed.  It  was  not  new.  He  knew  the  momentum 
of  an  accustomed  happiness,  mislaid,  it  may  be,  but  cer- 
tainly familiar.  They  sped  across  the  gravel  paths  that 
intersected  the  well-groomed  lawn,  they  leaped  the  flower- 
beds, so  laboriously  shaped  in  mockery,  they  clambered 
over  the  ornamental  iron  railings,  scorning  the  easier  five- 
barred  gate  into  the  park.  The  longer  grass  then  shook 
the  dew  in  soaking  showers  against  his  knees.  He 
stooped,  as  though  in  some  foolish  effort  to  turn  up 
something,  then  realised  that  his  legs,  of  course,  were 
bare.    Her  garment  was  already  high  and  free,  for  she, 


28  Day  and  Night  Stories 

too,  was  barelegged  like  himself.  He  saw  her  little 
ankles,  wet  ^nd  shining  in  the  moonlight,  and  flinging 
himself  down,  he  kissed  them  happily,  plunging  his  face 
into  the  dripping,  perfumed  grass.  Her  ringing  laughter 
mingled  with  his  own,  as  she  stooped  beside  him  the  same 
instant ;  her  hair  hung  in  a  silver  cloud ;  her  eyes  gleamed 
through  its  curtain  into  his;  then,  suddenly,  she  soaked 
her  hands  in  the  heavy  dew  and  passed  them  over  his 
face  with  a  softness  that  was  like  the  touch  of  some 
scented  southern  wind. 

"Now  you  are  anointed  with  the  Night,"  she  cried. 
*'No  one  will  know  you.  You  are  forgotten  of  the 
world.    Kiss  me!" 

''We'll  play  for  ever  and  ever,"  he  cried,  "the  eternal 
game  that  was  old  when  the  world  was  yet  young," 
and  lifting  her  in  his  arms  he  kissed  her  eyes  and 
lips.  There  was  some  natural  bliss  of  song  and  dance 
and  laughter  in  his  heart,  an  elemental  bliss  that  caught 
them  together  as  wind  and  sunlight  catch  the  branches 
of  a  tree.  She  leaped  from  the  ground  to  meet  his 
swinging  arms.  He  ran  with  her,  then  tossed  her  off  and 
caught  her  neatly  as  she  fell.  Evading  a  second  capture, 
she  danced  ahead,  holding  out  one  shining  arm  that  he 
might  follow.  Hand  in  hand  they  raced  on  together 
through  the- clean  summer  moonlight.  Yet  there  remained 
a  smooth  softness  as  of  fur  against  his  neck  and 
shoulders,  and  he  saw  then  that  she  wore  skins  of  tawny 
colour  that  clung  to  her  body  closely,  that  he  wore 
them  too,  and  that  her  skin,  like  his  own,  was  of  a  sweet 
dusky  brown. 

Then,  pulling  her  towards  him,  he  stared  into  her  face. 
She  suffered  the  close  gaze  a  second,  but  no  longer,  for 
with  a  burst  of  sparkling  laughter  again  she  leaped 
into  his  arms,  and  before  he  shook  her  free  she  had 
pulled  and  tweaked  the  two  small  horns  that  hid  in 
the  thick  curly  hair  behind,  and  just  above,  the  ears. 

And  that  wilful  tweaking  turned  him  wild  and  reckless. 


The  Touch  of  Pan  29 

That  touch  ran  down  him  deep  into  the  mothering  earth. 
He  leaped  and  ran  and  sang  with  a  great  laughing  sound. 
The  wine  of  eternal  youth  flushed  all  his  veins  with  joy, 
and  the  old,  old  world  was  young  again  with  every  im- 
pulse of  natural  happiness  intensified  with  the  Earth's 
own  foaming  tide  of  life. 

From  head  to  foot  he  tingled  with  the  delight  of  Spring, 
prodigal  with  creative  power.  Of  course  he  could  fly 
the  bushes  and  fling  wild  across  the  open!  Of  course 
the  wind  and  moonlight  fitted  close  and  soft  about  him 
like  a  skin !  Of  course  he  had  youth  and  beauty  for  play- 
mates, with  dancing,  laughter,  singing,  and  a  thousand 
kisses !  For  he  and  she  were  natural  once  again.  They 
were  free  together  of  those  long-forgotten  days  when 
"Pan  leaped  through  the  roses  in  the  month  of 
June  .  .  .!" 

With  the  girl  swaying  this  way  and  that  upon  his 
shoulders,  tweaking  his  horns  with  mischief  and  de- 
sire, hanging  her  flying  hair  before  his  eyes,  then  bend- 
ing swiftly  over  again  to  lift  it,  he  danced  to  join  the 
rest  of  their  companions  in  the  little  moonlit  grove  of 
pines  beyond.  .  .  . 


They  rose  somewhat  pointed,  perhaps,  against  the 
moonlight,  those  English  pines — more  with  the  shape  of 
cypresses,  some  might  have  thought.  A  stream  gushed 
down  between  their  roots,  there  were  mossy  ferns,  and 
rough  grey  boulders  with  lichen  on  them.  But  there  was 
no  dimness,  for  the  silver  of  the  moon  sprinkled  freely 
through  the  branches  like  the  faint  sunlight  that  it  really 
was,  and  the  air  ran  out  to  meet  them  with  a  heady 
fragrance  that  was  wiser  far  than  wine. 

The  girl,  in  an  instant,  was  whirled  from  her  perch 
on  his  shoulders  and  caught  by  a  dozen  arms  that  bore 
her  into  the  heart  of  the  jolly,  careless  throng.  Whisht! 
Whew !    Whir !    She  was  gone,  but  another,  fairer  still. 


30  Day  and  Night  Stories 

was  in  her  place,  with  skins  as  soft  and  knees  that 
clung  as  tightly.  Her  eyes  were  liquid  amber,  grapes 
hung  between  her  little  breasts,  her  arms  entwined  about 
him,  smoother  than  marble,  and  as  cool.  She  had  a 
crystal  laugh. 

But  he  flung  her  off,  so  that  she  fell  plump  among  a 
group  of  bigger  figures  lolling  against  a  twisted  root  and 
roaring  with  a  jollity  that  boomed  like  wind  through 
the  chorus  of  a  song.  They  seized  her,  kissed  her,  then 
sent  her  flying.  They  were  happier  with  their  glad 
singing.  They  held  stone  goblets,  red  and  foaming,  in 
their  broad-palmed  hands. 

"The  mountains  lie  behind  us !"  cried  a  figure  dancing 
past.  "We  are  come  at  last  into  our  valley  of  delight. 
Grapes,  breasts,  and  rich  red  lips !  Ho !  Ho !  It  is 
time  to  press  them  that  the  juice  of  life  may  run !"  He 
waved  a  cluster  of  ferns  across  the  air  and  vanished  amid 
a  cloud  of  song  and  laughter. 

"It  is  ours.  Use  it !"  answered  a  deep,  ringing  voice. 
"The  valleys  are  our  own.  No  climbing  now!"  And  a 
wind  of  echoing  cries  gave  answer  from  all  sides.  "Life ! 
Life!     Life!     Abundant,  flowing  over — use  it,  use  it!" 

A  troop  of  nymphs  rushed  forth,  escaped  from  cluster- 
ing arms  and  lips  they  yet  openly  desired.  He  chased 
them  in  and  out  among  the  waving  branches,  while  she 
who  had  brought  him  ever  followed,  and  sped  past  him 
and  away  again.  He  caught  three  gleaming  soft  brown 
bodies,  then  fell  beneath  them,  smothered,  bubbling  with 
joyous  laughter — next  freed  himself  and,  while  they 
sought  to  drag  him  captive  again,  escaped  and  raced  with 
a  leap  upon  a  slimmer,  sweeter  outline  that  swung  up — 
only  just  in  time — upon  a  lower  bough,  whence  she  leaned 
down  above  him  with  hanging  net  of  hair  and  merry 
eyes.  A  few  feet  beyond  his  reach,  she  laughed  and 
teased  him — the  one  who  had  brought  him  in,  the  one 
he  ever  sought,  and  who  for  ever  sought  him  too.   .    .    . 

It  became  a  riotous  glory  of  wild  children  who  romped 


The  Touch  of  Pan  31 

and  played  with  an  impassioned  glee  beneath  the  moon. 
For  the  world  was  young  and  they,  her  happy  offspring, 
glowed  with  the  life  she  poured  so  freely  into  them. 
All  intermingled,  the  laughing  voices  rose  into  a  foam 
of  song  that  broke  against  the  stars.  The  difficult  moun- 
tains had  been  climbed  and  were  forgotten.  Good! 
Then,  enjoy  the  luxuriant,  fruitful  valley  and  be  glad! 
And  glad  they  were,  brimful  with  spontaneous  energy, 
natural  as  birds  and  animals  that  obeyed  the  big,  deep 
rhythm  of  a  simpler  age — natural  as  wind  and  innocent 
as  sunshine. 

Yet,  for  all  the  untamed  riot,  there  was  a  lift  of 
beauty  pulsing  underneath.  Even  when  the  wildest 
abandon  approached  the  heat  of  orgy,  when  the  reck- 
lessness appeared  excess — there  hid  that  marvellous 
touch  of  loveliness  which  makes  the  natural  sacred. 
There  was  coherence,  purpose,  the  fulfilling  of  an  ex- 
quisite law :  there  was  worship.  The  form  it  took,  haply, 
was  strange  as  well  as  riotous,  yet  in  its  strangeness 
dreamed  innocence  and  purity,  and  in  its  very  riot  flamed 
that  spirit  which  is  divine. 

For  he  found  himself  at  length  beside  her  once  again ; 
breathless  and  panting,  her  sweet  brown  limbs  aglow 
from  the  excitement  of  escape  denied ;  eyes  shining  like 
a  blaze  of  stars,  and  pulses  beating  with  tumultuous  life 
— helpless  and  yielding  against  the  strength  that  pinned 
her  down  between  the  roots.  His  eyes  put  mastery  on 
her  own.  She  looked  up  into  his  face,  obedient,  happy, 
soft  with  love,  surrendered  with  the  same  delicious 
abandon  that  had  swept  her  for  a  moment  into  other 
arms.  "You  caught  me  in  the  end,"  she  sighed.  "I  only 
played  awhile." 

*T  hold  you  for  ever,"  he  replied,  half  wondering  at 
the  rough  power  in  his  voice. 

It  was  here  the  hush  of  worship  stole  upon  her  little 
face,  into  her  obedient  eyes,  about  her  parted  lips.  She 
ceased  her  wilful  struggling. 


32  Day  and  Night  Stories 

"Listen!"  she  whispered.  "I  hear  a  step  upon  the 
glades  beyond.  The  iris  and  the  lily  open;  the  earth 
is  ready,  waiting ;  we  must  be  ready  too !    He  is  coming !" 

He  released  her  and  sprang  up;  the  entire  company 
rose  too.  All  stood,  all  bowed  the  head.  There  was  an 
instant's  subtle  panic,  but  it  was  the  panic  of  reverent 
awe  that  preludes  a  descent  of  deity.  For  a  wind  passed 
through  the  branches  with  a  sound  that  is  the  oldest  in 
the  world  and  so  the  youngest.  Above  it  there  rose  the 
shrill,  faint  piping  of  a  little  reed.  Only  the  first,  true 
sounds  were  audible — wind  and  water — the  tinkling  of 
the  dewdrops  as  they  fell,  the  murmur  of  the  trees  against 
the  air.  This  was  the  piping  that  they  heard.  And  in 
the  hush  the  stars  bent  down  to  hear,  the  riot  paused,  the 
orgy  passed  and  died.  The  figures  waited,  kneeling  then 
with  one  accord.    They  listened  with — the  Earth. 

'*He  comes.  .  .  .  He  comes  .  .  ."  the  valley  breathed 
about  them. 

There  was  a  footfall  from  far  away,  treading  across 
a  world  unruined  and  unstained.  It  fell  with  the  wind  and 
water,  sweetening  the  valley  into  life  as  it  approached. 
Across  the  rivers  and  forests  it  came  gently,  tenderly, 
but  swiftly  and  with  a  power  that  knew  majesty. 

*'He  comes.  .  .  .  He  comes  .  .  . !"  rose  with  the  mur- 
mur of  the  wind  and  water  from  the  host  of  lowered 
heads. 

The  footfall  came  nearer,  treading  a  world  grown  soft 
with  worship.  It  reached  the  grove.  It  entered.  There 
was  a  sense  of  intolerable  loveliness,  of  brimming  life, 
of  rapture.  The  thousand  faces  lifted  like  a  cloud.  They 
heard  the  piping  close.    And  so  He  came. 

But  He  came  with  blessing.  With  the  stupendous 
Presence  there  was  joy,  the  joy  of  abundant,  natural 
life,  pure  as  the  sunlight  and  the  wind.  He  passed 
among  them.  There  was  great  movement — as  of  a 
forest  shaking,  as  of  deep  water  falling,  as  of  a  corn- 
field swaying  to  the  wind,  yet  gentle  as  of  a  harebell 


The  Touch  of  Pan  33 

shedding  its  burden  of  dew  that  it  has  held  too  long  be- 
cause of  love.  He  passed  among  them,  touching  every 
head.  The  great  hand  swept  with  tenderness  each  face, 
lingered  a  moment  on  each  beating  heart.  There  was 
sweetness,  peace,  and  loveliness ;  but  above  all,  there  was 
— life.  He  sanctioned  every  natural  joy  in  them  and 
blessed  each  passion  with  his  power  of  creation.  .  .  . 
Yet  each  one  saw  him  differently :  some  as  a  wife  or 
maiden  desired  with  fire,  some  as  a  youth  or  stalwart 
husband,  others  as  a  figure  veiled  with  stars  or  cloaked 
in  luminous  mist,  hardly  attainable;  others,  again — the 
fewest  these,  not  more  than  two  or  three — as  that  mys- 
terious wonder  which  tempts  the  heart  away  from  known 
familiar  sweetness  into  a  wilderness  of  undecipherable 
magic  without  flesh  and  blood.  .  .  . 

To  two,  in  particular,  He  came  so  near  that  they  could 
feel  his  breath  of  hills  and  fields  upon  their  eyes.  He 
touched  them  with  both  mighty  hands.  He  stroked  the 
marble  breasts.  He  felt  the.  little  hidden  horns  .  .  .  and, 
as  they  bent  lower  so  that  their  lips  met  together  for  an 
instant.  He  took  her  arms  and  twined  them  about  the 
curved,  brown  neck  that  she  might  hold  him  closer 
still.  .  .  . 

Again  a  footfall  sounded  far  away  upon  an  unruined 
world  .  .  .  and  He  was  gone — back  into  the  wind  and 
water  whence  He  came.  The  thousand  faces  lifted;  all 
stood  up;  the  hush  of  worship  still  among  them.  There 
was  a  quiet  as  of  the  dawn.  The  piping  floated  over 
woods  and  fields,  fading  into  silence.  All  looked  at  one 
another.  .  .  .  And  then  once  more  the  laughter  and  the 
play  broke  loose. 


"We'll  go,"  she  cried,  "and  peep  upon  that  other  world 
where  life  hangs  like  a  prison  on  their  eyes !"  And,  in 
a  moment,  they  were  across  the  soaking  grass,  the  lawn 
and  flower-beds,  and  close  to  the  walls  of  the  heavy  man- 


34  Day  and  Night  Stories 

sion.  He  peered  in  through  a  window,  lifting  her  up  to 
peer  in  with  him.  He  recognised  the  world  to  which 
outwardly  he  belonged;  he  understood;  a  little  gasp  es- 
caped him;  and  a  slight  shiver  ran  down  the  girl's  body 
into  his  own.  She  turned  her  eyes  away.  "See,"  she 
murmured  in  his  ear,  "it's  ugly,  it's  not  natural.  They 
feel  guilty  and  ashamed.  There  is  no  innocence !"  She 
saw  the  men ;  it  was  the  women  that  he  saw  chiefly. 

LolHng  ungracefully,  with  a  kind  of  boldness  that  as- 
serted independence,  the  women  smoked  their  cigarettes 
with  an  air  of  invitation  they  sought  to  conceal  and  yet 
showed  plainly.  He  saw  his  familiar  world  in  naked- 
ness. Their  backs  were  bare,  for  all  the  elaborate  clothes 
they  wore;  they  hung  their  breasts  uncleanly;  in  their 
eyes  shone  light  that  had  never  known  the  open  sun. 
Hoping  they  were  alluring  and  desirable,  they  feigned 
a  guilty  ignorance  of  that  hope.  They  all  pretended.  In- 
stead of  wind  and  dew  upon  their  hair,  he  saw  flowers 
grown  artificially  to  ape  wild  beauty,  tresses  without 
lustre  borrowed  from  the  slums  of  city  factories.  He 
watched  them  manoeuvring  with  the  men;  heard  dark 
sentences;  caught  gestures  half  delivered  whose  mean- 
ing should  just  convey  that  glimpse  of  guilt  they  deemed 
to  increase  pleasure.  The  women  were  calculating,  but 
nowhere  glad;  the  men  experienced,  but  nowhere  joyous. 
Pretended  innocence  lay  cloaked  with  a  veil  of  some- 
thing that  whispered  secretly,  clandestine,  ashamed,  yet 
with  a  brazen  air  that  laid  mockery  instead  of  sunshine 
in  their  smiles.  Vice  masqueraded  in  the  ugly  shape  of 
pleasure;  beauty  was  degraded  into  calculated  tricks. 
They  were  not  natural.    They  knew  not  joy. 

'The  forward  ones,  the  civilised!"  she  laughed  in  his 
ear,  tweaking  his  horns  with  energy.  ''We  are  the  back- 
ward !" 

"Unclean,"  he  muttered,  recalling  a  catchword  of  the 
world  he  gazed  upon. 

They  were  the  civilised !    They  were  refined  and  edu- 


The  Touch  of  Pan  35 

cated — advanced.  Generations  of  careful  breeding,  mate 
cautiously  selecting  mate,  laid  the  polish  of  caste  upon 
their  hands  and  faces  where  gleamed  ridiculous,  un- 
taught jewels — rings,  bracelets,  necklaces  hanging  ab- 
surdly from  every  possible  angle. 

"But — they  are  dressed  up — for  fun,"  he  exclaimed, 
more  to  himself  than  to  the  girl  in  skins  who  clung  to 
his  shoulders  with  her  naked  arms. 

''L^wdressed !"  she  answered,  putting  her  brown  hand 
in  play  across  his  eyes.  "Only  they  have  forgotten  even 
that !"  And  another  shiver  passed  through  her  into  him. 
He  turned  and  hid  his  face  against  the  soft  skins  that 
touched  his  cheek.  He  kissed  her  body.  Seizing  his 
horns,  she  pressed  him  to  her,  laughing  happily. 

"Look!"  she  whispered,  raising  her  head  again; 
"they're  coming  out."  And  he  saw  that  two  of  them, 
a  man  and  a  girl,  with  an  interchange  of  secret  glances, 
had  stolen  from  the  room  and  were  already  by  the  door 
of  the  conservatory  that  led  into  the  garden.  It  was  his 
wife  to  be — and  his  distinguished  cousin. 

"Oh,  Pan!"  she  cried  in  mischief.  The  girl  sprang 
from  his  arms  and  pointed.  "We  will  follow  them.  We 
will  put  natural  life  into  their  little  veins !" 

"Or  panic  terror,"  he  answered,  catching  the  yellow 
panther  skin  and  following  her  swiftly  round  the  building. 
He  kept  in  the  shadow,  though  she  ran  full  into  the  blaze 
of  moonlight.  "But  they  can't  see  us,"  she  called,  look- 
ing over  her  shoulder  a  moment.  "They  can  only  feel 
our  presence,  perhaps."  And,  as  she  danced  across  the 
lawn,  it  seemed  a  moonbeam  slipped  from  a  sapling 
birch  tree  that  the  wind  curved  earthwards,  then  tossed 
back  against  the  sky. 

Keeping  just  ahead,  they  led  the  pair,  by  methods 
known  instinctively  to  elemental  blood  yet  not  translat- 
able— led  them  towards  the  little  grove  of  waiting  pines. 
The  night  wind  murmured  in  the  branches ;  a  bird  woke 
into  a  sudden  burst  of  song.    These  sounds  were  plainly 


36  Day  and  Night  Stories 

audible.  But  four  little  pointed  ears  caught  other,  wilder 
notes  behind  the  wind  and  music  of  the  bird — the  cries 
and  ringing  laughter,  the  leaping  footsteps  and  the  happy 
singing  of  their  merry  kin  within  the  wood. 

And  the  throng  paused  then  amid  the  revels  to  watch 
the  "civilised"  draw  near.  They  presently  reached  the 
trees,  halted,  looked  about  them,  hesitated  a  moment — • 
then,  with  a  hurried  movement  as  of  shame  and  fear  lest 
they  be  caught,  entered  the  zone  of  shadow. 

"Let's  go  in  here,"  said  the  man,  without  music  in  his 
voice.  "It's  dry  on  the  pine  needles,  and  we  can't  be 
seen."  He  led  the  way ;  she  picked  up  her  skirts  and  fol- 
lowed over  the  strip  of  long  wet  grass.  "Here's  a  log 
all  ready  for  us,"  he  added,  sat  down,  and  drew  her 
into  his  arms  with  a  sigh  of  satisfaction.  "Sit  on  my 
knee ;  it's  warmer  for  your  pretty  figure."  He  chuckled ; 
evidently  they  were  on  familiar  terms,  for  though  she 
hesitated,  pretending  to  be  coy,  there  was  no  real  re- 
sistance in  her,  and  she  allowed  the  ungraceful  rough- 
ness. "But  are  we  quite  safe  ?  Are  you  sure  ?"  she  asked 
between  his  kisses. 

"What  does  it  matter,  even  if  we're  not?"  he  replied, 
establishing  her  more  securely  on  his  knees.  "But,  as  a 
matter  of  fact,  we're  safer  here  than  in  my  own  house." 
He  kissed  her  hungrily.  "By  Jove,  Hermione,  but  you're 
divine,"  he  cried  passionately,  "divinely  beautiful.  I  love 
you  with  every  atom  of  my  being — with  my  soul." 

"Yes,  dear,  I  know — I  mean,  I  know  you  do,  but " 

"But  what?"  he  asked  impatiently. 

"Those  detectives " 

He  laughed.  Yet  it  seemed  to  annoy  him.  "My  wife 
is  a  beast,  isn't  she  ? — to  have  me  watched  like  that,"  he 
said  quickly. 

"They're  everywhere,"  she  replied,  a  sudden  hush  in 
her  tone.  She  looked  at  the  encircling  trees  a  moment, 
then  added  bitterly:    "I  hate  her,  simply  hate  her." 

"I  love  you,"  he  cried,  crushing  her  to  him,  "that's  all 


The  Touch  of  Pan  37 

that  matters  now.  Don't  let's  waste  time  talking  about 
the  rest."  She  contrived  to  shudder,  and  hid  her  face 
against  his  coat,  while  he  showered  kisses  on  her  neck 
and  hair. 

And  the  solemn  pine  trees  watched  them,  the  silvery 
moonlight  fell  on  their  faces,  the  scent  of  new-mown 
hay  went  floating  past. 

"I  love  you  with  my  very  soul,"  he  repeated  with  in- 
tense conviction.  "I'd  do  anything,  give  up  anything, 
bear  anything — just  to  give  you  a  moment's  happiness.  I 
swear  it — before  God!" 

There  was  a  faint  sound  among  the  trees  behind  them, 
and  the  girl  sat  up,  alert.  She  would  have  scrambled 
to  her  feet,  but  that  he  held  her  tight. 

''What  the  devil's  the  matter  with  you  to-night?" 
he  asked  in  a  different  tone,  his  vexation  plainly  audible. 
"You're  as  nervy  as  if  you  were  being  watched,  instead 
of  me." 

She  paused  before  she  answered,  her  finger  on  her  lip. 
Then  she  said  slowly,  hushing  her  voice  a  little : 

"Watched !  That's  exactly  what  I  did  feel.  I've  felt 
it  ever  since  we  came  into  the  wood." 

"Nonsense,  Hermione.  It's  too  many  cigarettes."  He 
drew  her  back  into  his  arms,  forcing  her  head  up  so 
that  he  could  kiss  her  better. 

"I  suppose  it  is  nonsense,"  she  said,  smiling.  "It's 
gone  now,  anyhow." 

He  began  admiring  her  hair,  her  dress,  her  shoes,  her 
pretty  ankles,  while  she  resisted  in  a  way  that  proved 
her  practice.  "It's  not  me  you  love,"  she  pouted,  yet 
drinking  in  his  praise.  She  listened  to  his  repeated  as- 
surances that  he  loved  her  with  his  "soul"  and  was  pre- 
pared for  any  sacrifice. 

"I  feel  so  safe  with  you,"  she  murmured,  knowing  the 
moves  in  the  game  as  well  as  he  did.  She  looked  up 
guiltily  into  his  face,  and  he  looked  down  with  a  passion 
that  he  thought  perhaps  was  joy. 


38  Day  and  Night  Stories 

"You'll  be  married  before  the  summer's  out,"  he  said, 
"and  all  the  thrill  and  excitement  will  be  over.  Poor 
Hermione !"  She  lay  back  in  his  arms,  drawing  his  face 
down  with  both  hands,  and  kissing  him  on  the  lips. 
"You'll  have  more  of  him  than  you  can  do  with — eh? 
As  much  as  you  care  about,  anyhow." 

"I  shall  be  much  more  free,"  she  whispered.  "Things 
will  be  easier.    And  I've  got  to  marry  some  one " 

She  broke  off  with  another  start.  There  was  a  sound 
again  behind  them.  The  man  heard  nothing.  The  blood 
in  his  temples  pulsed  too  loudly,  doubtless. 

"Well,  what  is  it  this  time?"  he  asked  sharply. 

She  was  peering  into  the  wood,  where  the  patches  of 
dark  shadow  and  moonlit  spaces  made  odd,  irregular 
patterns  in  the  air.  A  low  branch  waved  slightly  in  the 
wind. 

"Did  you  hear  that?"  she  asked  nervously. 

"Wind,"  he  replied,  annoyed  that  her  change  of  mood 
disturbed  his  pleasure. 

"But  something  moved " 

"Only  a  branch.  We're  quite  alone,  quite  safe,  I  tell 
you,"  and  there  was  a  rasping  sound  in  his  voice  as  he 
said  it.  "Don't  be  so  imaginative.  I  can  take  care  of 
you." 

She  sprang  up.  The  moonlight  caught  her  figure,  re- 
vealing its  exquisite  young  curves  beneath  the  smother  of 
the  costly  clothing.  Her  hair  had  dropped  a  little  in  the 
struggle.  The  man  eyed  her  eagerly,  making  a  quick, 
impatient  gesture  towards  her,  then  stopped  abruptly. 
He  saw  the  terror  in  her  eyes. 

"Oh,  hark !  What's  that  ?"  she  whispered  in  a  startled 
voice.  She  put  her  finger  up.  "Oh,  let's  go  back.  I 
don't  like  this  wood.     I'm  frightened." 

"Rubbish,"  he  said,  and  tried  to  catch  her  by  the 
waist. 

"It's   safer   in   the   house — my   room — or   yours " 


The  Touch  of  Pan  39 

She  broke  off  again.  ''There  it  is — don't  you  hear  ?  It's 
a  footstep!"    Her  face  was  whiter  than  the  moon. 

"I  tell  you  it's  the  wind  in  the  branches,"  he  repeated 
gruffly.  "Oh,  come  on,  do.  We  were  just  getting  jolly 
together.  There's  nothing  to  be  afraid  of.  Can't  you  be- 
lieve me?"  He  tried  to  pull  her  down  upon  his  knee 
again  with  force.  His  face  wore  an  unpleasant  expres- 
sion that  was  half  leer,  half  grin. 

But  the  girl  stood  away  from  him.  She  continued  to 
peer  nervously  about  her.     She  listened. 

"You  give  me  the  creeps,"  he  exclaimed  crossly,  claw- 
ing at  her  waist  again  with  passionate  eagerness  that 
now  betrayed  exasperation.  His  disappointment  turned 
him  coarse. 

The  girl  made  a  quick  movement  of  escape,  turning 
so  as  to  look  in  every  direction.    She  gave  a  little  scream. 

"That  was  a  step.  Oh,  oh,  it's  close  beside  us.  I 
heard  it.  We're  being  watched!"  she  cried  in  terror. 
She  darted  towards  him,  then  shrank  back.  He  did  not 
try  to  touch  her  this  time. 

"Moonshine !"  he  growled.  "You've  spoilt  my — spoilt 
our  chance  with  your  silly  nerves." 

But  she  did  not  hear  him  apparently.  She  stood  there 
shivering  as  with  sudden  cold. 

"There!  I  saw  it  again.  I'm  sure  of  it.  Something 
went  past  me  through  the  air." 

And  the  man,  still  thinking  only  of  his  own  pleasure 
frustrated,  got  up  heavily,  something  like  anger  in  his 
eyes.  "All  right,"  he  said  testily;  "if  you're  going  to 
make  a  fuss,  we'd  better  go.  The  house  is  safer,  pos- 
sibly, as  you  say.  You  know  my  room.  Come  along!" 
Even  that  risk  he  would  not  take.  He  loved  her  with 
his  "soul." 

They  crept  stealthily  out  of  the  wood,  the  girl  slightly 
in  front  of  him,  casting  frightened  backward  glances. 
Afraid,  guilty,  ashamed,  with  an  air  as  though  they  had 


40  Day  and  Night  Stories 

been  detected,  they  stole  back  towards  the  garden  and 
the  house,  and  disappeared  from  view. 

And  a  wind  rose  suddenly  with  a  rushing  sound, 
poured  through  the  wood  as  though  to  cleanse  it,  swept 
out  the  artificial  scent  and  trace  of  shame,  and  brought 
back  again  the  song,  the  laughter,  and  the  happy  revels. 
It  roared  across  the  park,  it  shook  the  windows  of  the 
house,  then  sank  away  as  quickly  as  it  came.  The  trees 
stood  motionless  again,  guarding  their  secret  in  the  clean, 
sweet  moonlight  that  held  the  world  in  dream  until  the 
dawn  stole  up  and  sunshine  took  the  earth  with  joy. 


Ill 

THE  WINGS  OF  HORUS 

BiNOViTCH  had  the  bird  in  him  somewhere :  in  his 
features,  certainly,  with  his  piercing  eye  and  hawk-like 
nose;  in  his  movements,  with  his  quick  way  of  flitting, 
hopping,  darting;  in  the  way  he  perched  on  the  edge  of 
a  chair ;  in  the  manner  he  pecked  at  his  food ;  in  his  twit- 
tering, high-pitched  voice  as  well;  and,  above  all,  in 
his  mind.  He  skimmed  all  subjects  and  picked  their 
heart  out  neatly,  as  a  bird  skims  lawn  or  air  to  snatch  its 
prey.  He  had  the  bird's-eye  view  of  everything.  He 
loved  birds  and  understood  them  instinctively;  could 
imitate  their  whistling  notes  with  astonishing  accuracy. 
Their  one  quality  he  had  not  was  poise  and  balance.  He 
was  a  nervous  little  man ;  he  was  neurasthenic.  And  he 
was  in  Egypt  by  doctor's  orders. 

Such  imaginative,  unnecessary  ideas  he  had!  Such 
uncommon  beliefs ! 

"The  old  Egyptians,"  he  said  laughingly,  yet  with  a 
touch  of  solemn  conviction  in  his  manner,  "were  a  great 
people.  Their  consciousness  was  different  from  ours. 
The  bird  idea,  for  instance,  conveyed  a  sense  of  deity 
to  them — of  bird  deity,  that  is :  they  had  sacred  birds — 
hawks,  ibis,  and  so  forth — and  worshipped  them."  And 
he  put  his  tongue  out  as  though  to  say  with  challenge, 
"Ha,  ha!" 

"They  also  worshipped  cats  and  crocodiles  and  cows," 
grinned  Palazov.  Binovitch  seemed  to  dart  across  the 
table  at  his  adversary.  His  eyes  flashed ;  his  nose  pecked 
the  air.  Almost  one  could  imagine  the  beating  of  his 
angry  wings. 

41 


42  Day  and  Night  Stories 

"Because  everything  alive,"  he  half  screamed,  "was  a 
symbol  of  some  spiritual  power  to  them.  Your  mind 
is  as  literal  as  a  dictionary  and  as  incoherent.  Pages 
of  ink  without  connected  meaning!  Verb  always  in  the 
infinitive !  If  you  were  an  old  Egyptian,  you — you" — 
he  flashed  and  spluttered,  his  tongue  shot  out  again,  his 
keen  eyes  blazed — "you  might  take  all  those  words  and 
spin  them  into  a  great  interpretation  of  life,  a  cosmic  ro- 
mance, as  they  did.  Instead,  you  get  the  bitter,  dead  taste 
of  ink  in  your  mouth,  and  spit  it  over  us  like  that" — 
he  made  a  quick  movement  of  his  whole  body  as  a  bird 
that  shakes  itself — "in  empty  phrases." 

Khilkoflf  ordered  another  bottle  of  champagne,  while 
Vera,  his  sister,  said  half  nervously,  "Let's  go  for  a  drive ; 
it's  moonlight."  There  was  enthusiasm  at  once.  An- 
other of  the  party  called  the  head  waiter  and  told  him 
to  pack  food  and  drink  in  baskets.  It  was  only  eleven 
o'clock.  They  would  drive  out  into  the  desert,  have  a 
meal  at  two  in  the  morning,  tell  stories,  sing,  and  see  the 
dawn. 

It  was  in  one  of  those  cosmopolitan  hotels  in  Egypt 
which  attract  the  ordinary  tourists  as  well  as  those  who 
are  doing  a  "cure,"  and  all  these  Russians  were  ill  with 
one  thing  or  another.  All  were  ordered  out  for  their 
health,  and  all  were  the  despair  of  their  doctors.  They 
were  as  unmanageable  as  a  bazaar  and  as  incoherent. 
Excess  and  bed  were  their-  routine.  They  lived,  but 
none  of  them  got  better.  Equally,  none  of  them  got 
angry.  They  talked  in  this  strange  personal  way  with- 
out a  shred  of  malice  or  offence.  The  English,  French, 
and  Germans  in  the  hotel  watched  them  with  remote 
amazement,  referring  to  them  as  "that  Russian  lot." 
Their  energy  was  elemental.  They  never  stopped.  They 
merely  disappeared  when  the  pace  became  too  fast, 
then  reappeared  again  after  a  day  or  two,  and  resumed 
their  "living"  as  before.  Binovitch,  despite  his  neu- 
rasthenia, was  the  life  of  the  party.     He  was  also  a 


The  Wings  of  Horus  43 

special  patient  of  Dr.  Plitzinger,  the  famous  psychiatrist, 
who  took  a  pecuHar  interest  in  his  case.  It  was  not  sur- 
prising. Binovitch  was  a  rnan  of  unusual  ability  and  of 
genuine,  deep  culture.  But  there  was  something  more 
about  him  that  stimulated  curiosity.  There  was  this 
striking  originality.     He  said  and  did  surprising  things. 

"I  could  fly  if  I  wanted  to,"  he  said  once  when  the 
airmen  came  to  astonish  the  natives  with  their  biplanes 
over  the  desert,  "but  without  all  that  machinery  and 
noise.  It's  only  a  question  of  believing  and  under- 
standing  " 

"Show  us !"  they  cried.    "Let's  see  you  fly !" 

"He's  got  it !  He's  off  again !  One  of  his  impossible 
moments." 

These  occasions  when  Binovitch  let  himself  go  always 
proved  wildly  entertaining.  He  said  monstrously  in- 
credible things  as  though  he  really  did  believe  them. 
They  loved*  his  madness,  for  it  gave  them  new  sensa- 
tions. 

"It's  only  levitation,  after  all,  this  flying,"  he  exclaimed, 
shooting  out  his  tongue  between  the  words,  as  his  habit 
was  when  excited;  "and  what  is  levitation  but  a  power 
of  the  air?  None  of  you  can  hang  an  orange  in  space  for 
a  second,  with  all  your  scientific  knowledge;  but  the 
moon  is  always  levitated  perfectly.  And  the  stars.  D'you 
think  they  swing  on  wires?  What  raised  the  enormous 
stones  of  ancient  Egypt?  D'you  really  believe  it  was 
heaped-up  sand  and  ropes  and  clumsy  leverage  and  all 
our  weary  and  laborious  mechanical  contrivances  ?  Bah ! 
It  was  levitation.  It  was  the  powers  of  the  air.  Be- 
lieve in  those  powers,  and  gravity  becomes  a  mere  nursery 
trick — true  where  it  is,  but  true  nowhere  else.  To  know 
the  fourth  dimension  is  to  step  out  of  a  locked  room  and 
appear  instantly  on  the  roof  or  in  another  country  al- 
together. To  know  the  powers  of  the  air,  similarly,  is 
to  annihilate  what  you  call  weight — and  fly." 


44  Day  and  Night  Stories 

"Show  us,  show  us!"  they  cried,  roaring  with  de- 
lighted laughter. 

**It's  a  question  of  belief,"  he  repeated,  his  tongue 
appearing  and  disappearing  like  a  pointed  shadow.  "It's 
in  the  heart;  the  power  of  the  air  gets  into  your  whole 
being.  Why  should  I  show  you?  Why  should  I  ask 
my  deity  to  persuade  your  scoffimg  little  minds  by  any 
miracle  ?  For  it  is  deity,  I  tell  you,  and  nothing  else.  I 
knour  it.  Follow  one  idea  like  that,  as  I  follow  my  bird 
idea — follow  it  with  the  impetus  and  undeviating  concen- 
tration of  a  projectile — and  you  arrive  at  power.  You 
know  deity — the  bird  idea  of  deity,  that  is.  They  knew 
that.    The  old  Egyptians  knew  it." 

"Oh,  show  us,  show  us!"  they  shouted  impatiently, 
wearied  of  his  nonsense-talk.  "Get  up  and  fly !  Levitate 
yourself,  as  they  did !     Become  a  star !" 

Binovitch  turned  suddenly  very  pale,  and  an  odd  light 
shone  in  his  keen  brown  eyes.  He  rose  slowly  from  the 
edge  of  the  chair  where  he  was  perched.  Something 
about  him  changed.     There  was  silence  instantly. 

"I  Tmll  show  you,"  he  said  calmly,  to  their  intense 
amazement ;  "not  to  convince  your  disbelief,  but  to  prove 
it  to  myself.  For  the  powers  of  the  air  are  with  me 
here.  I  believe.  And  Horus,  great  falcon-headed  symbol, 
is  my  patron  god." 

The  suppressed  energy  in  his  voice  and  manner'  was 
indescribable.  There  was  a  sense  of  lifting,  upheaving 
power  about  him.  He  raised  his  arms;  his  face  turned 
upward;  he  inflated  his  lungs  with  a  deep,  long  breath, 
and  his  voice  broke  into  a  kind  of  singing  cry,  half  prayer, 
half  chant : 

"O  Horus, 
Bright-eyed  deity  of  wind, 

^Feather  my  soul 
Though  earth's  thick  air, 
To  know  thy  awful  swiftness " 

*The  Russian  is  untranslatable.  The  phrase  means,  "Give  my 
life  wings." 


The  Wings  of  Horus  45 

He  broke  off  suddenly.  He  climbed  lightly  and  swiftly 
upon  the  nearest  table — it  was  in  a  deserted  card-room, 
after  a  game  in  which  he  had  lost  more  pounds  than 
there  are  days  in  the  year — and  leaped  into  the  air.  He 
hovered  a  second,  spread  his  arms  and  legs  in  space, 
appeared  to  float  a  moment,  then  buckled,  rushed  down 
and  forward,  and  dropped  in  a  heap  upon  the  floor,  while 
every  one  roared  with  laughter. 

But  the  laughter  died  out  quickly,  for  there  was  some- 
thing in  his  wild  performance  that  was  peculiar  and  un- 
usual. It  was  uncanny,  not  quite  natural.  His  body 
had  seemed,  as  with  Mordkin  and  Nijinski,  literally  to 
hang  upon  the  air  a  moment.  For  a  second  he  gave  the 
distressing  impression  of  overcoming  gravity.  There 
was  a  touch  in  it  of  that  faint  horror  which  appals  by 
its  very  vagueness.  He  picked  himself  up  unhurt,  and 
his  face  was  as  grave  as  a  portrait  in  the  academy,  but 
with  a  new  expression  in  it  that  everybody  noticed  with 
this  strange,  half-shocked  amazement.  And  it  was  this 
expression  that  extinguished  the  claps  of  laughter  as 
wind  that  takes  away  the  sound  of  bells.  Like  many 
ugly  men,  he  was  an  inimitable  actor,  and  his  facial 
repertory  was  endless  and  incredible.  But  this  was 
neither  acting  nor  clever  manipulation  of  expressive 
features.  There  was  something  in  his  curious  Russian 
physiognomy  that  made  the  heart  beat  slower.  And 
that  was  why  the  laughter  died  away  so  suddenly. 

"You  ought  to  have  flown  farther,"  cried  some  one. 
It  expressed  what  all  had  felt. 

"Icarus  didn't  drink  champagne,"  another  replied,  with 
a  laugh;  but  nobody  laughed  with  him. 

"You  went  too  near  to  Vera,"  said  Palazov,  "and 
passion  melted  the  wax."  But  his  face  twitched  oddly 
as  he  said  it.  There  was  something  he  did  not  under- 
stand, and  so  heartily  disliked. 

The  strange  expression  on  the  features  deepened.  It 
was  arresting  in  a  disagreeable,  almost  in  a  horrible, 


46  Day  and  Night  Stories 

way.  The  talk  stopped  dead ;  all  stared ;  there  was  a 
feeling  of  dismay  in  everybody's  heart,  yet  unexplained. 
Some  lowered  their  eyes,  or  else  looked  stupidly  else- 
where ;  but  the  women  of  the  party  felt  a  kind  of  fascina- 
tion. Vera,  in  particular,  could  not  move  her  sight 
away.  The  joking  reference  to  his  passionate  admira- 
tion for  her  passed  unnoticed.  There  was  a  general 
and  individual  sense  of  shock.  And  a  chorus  of  whispers 
rose  instantly: 

"Look  at  Binovitch!     What's  happened  to  his  face?" 

"He's  changed — he's  changing!" 

"God!     Why  he  looks  like  a— bird!" 

But  no  one  laughed.  Instead,  th^y  chose  the  names 
of  birds — hawk,  eagle,  even  owl.  The  figure  of  a  man 
leaning  against  the  edge  of  the  door,  watching  them 
closely,  they  did  not  notice.  He  had  been  passing  down 
the  corridor,  had  looked  in  unobserved,  and  then  had 
paused.  He  had  seen  the  whole  performance.  He 
watched  Binovitch  narrowly,  now  with  calm,  discerning 
eyes.    It  was  Dr  Plitzinger,  the  great  psychiatrist. 

For  Binovitch  had  picked  himself  up  from  the  floor 
in  a  way  that  was  oddly  self-jK)ssessed,  and  precluded 
the  least  possibility  of  the  ludicrous.  He  looked  neither 
foolish  nor  abashed.  He  looked  surprised,  but  also  he 
looked  half  angry  and  half  frightened.  As  some  one 
had  said,  he  "ought  to  have  flown  farther."  That  was 
the  incredible  impression  his  acrobatics  had  produced — 
incredible,  yet  somehow  actual.  This  uncanny  idea  pre- 
vailed, as  at  a  seance  where  nothing  genuine  is  expected 
to  happen,  and  something  genuine,  after  all,  does  hap- 
pen. There  was  no  pretence  in  this :  Binovitch  had 
flown. 

And  now  he  stood  there,  white  in  the  face — with 
terror  and  with  anger  white.  He  looked  extraordinary, 
this  little,  neurasthenic  Russian,  but  he  looked  at  the 
same  time  half  terrific.  Another  thing,  not  commonly 
experienced  by  men,  was  in  him,  breaking  out  of  him, 


The  Wings  of  Horus  47 

affecting  directly  the  minds  of  his  companions.  His 
mouth  opened ;  blood  and  fury  shone  in  his  blazing  eyes ; 
his  tongue  shot  out  like  an  ant-eater's,  though  even 
in  that  the  comic  had  no  place.  His  arms  were  spread 
like  flapping  wings,  and  his  voice  rose  dreadfully: 

''He  failed  me,  he  failed  me !"  he  tried  to  bellow. 
**Horus,  my  falcon-headed  deity,  my  power  of  the  air, 
deserted  me !  Hell  take  him !  Hell  burn  his  wings  and 
blast  his  piercing  sight !  Hell  scorch  him  into  dust  for  his 
false  prophecies !     I  curse  him — I  curse  Horus !" 

The  voice  that  should  have  roared  across  the  silent 
room  emitted,  instead,  this  high-pitched,  bird-like  scream. 
The  added  touch  of  sound,  the  reality  it  lent,  was  ghastly. 
Yet  it  was  marvellously  done  and  acted.  The  entire  thing 
was  a  bit  of  instantaneous  inspiration — his  voice,  his 
words,  his  gestures,  his  whole  wild  appearance.  Only — 
here  was  the  reality  that  caused  the  sense  of  shock — the 
expression  on  his  altered  features  was  genuine.  That 
was  not  assumed.  There  was  something  new  and  alien 
in  him,  something  cold  and  difficult  to  human  life,  some- 
thing alert  and  swift  and  cruel,  of  another  element  than 
earth.  A  strange,  rapacious  grandeur  had  leaped  upon 
the  struggling  features.    The  face  looked  hawk-like. 

And  he  came  forward  suddenly  and  sharply  toward 
Vera,  whose  fixed,  staring  eyes  had  never  once  ceased 
watching  him  with  a  kind  of  anxious  and  devouring  pain 
in  them.  She  was  both  drawn  and  beaten  back.  Binovitch 
advanced  on  tiptoe.  No  doubt  he  still  was  acting,  still 
pretending  this  mad  nonsense  that  he  worshipped  Horus, 
the  falcon-headed  deity  of  forgotten  days,  and  that  Horus 
had  failed  him  in  his  hour  of  need;  but  somehow  there 
was  just  a  hint  of  too  much  reality  in  the  way  he  moved 
and  looked.  The  girl,  a  little  creature,  with  fluffy  golden 
hair,  opened  her  lips ;  her  cigarette  fell  to  the  floor ;  she 
shrank  back;  she  looked  for  a  moment  Hke  some  smaller, 
coloured  bird  trying  to  escape  from  a  great  pursuing 
hawk ;  she  screamed.    Binovitch,  his  arms  wide,  his  bird- 


48  Day  and  Night  Stories 

like  face  thrust  forward,  had  swooped  upon  her.  He 
leaped.    Almost  he  caught  her. 

No  one  could  say  exactly  what  happened.  Play,  be- 
come suddenly  and  unexpectedly  too  real,  confuses  the 
emotions.  The  change  of  key  was  swift.  From  fun  to 
terror  is  a  dislocating  jolt  upon  the  mind.  Some  one — it 
was  Khilkoff,  the  brother — upset  a  chair;  everybody 
spoke  at  once;  everybody  stood  up.  An  unaccountable 
feeling  of  disaster  was  in  the  air,  as  with  those  drinkers' 
quarrels  that  blaze  out  from  nothing,  and  end  in  a  pistol- 
shot  and  death,  no  one  able  to  explain  clearly  how  it 
came  about.  It  was  the  silent,  watching  figure  in  the 
doorway  who  saved  the  situation.  Before  any  one  had 
noticed  his  approach,  there  he  was  among  the  group, 
laughing,  talking,  applauding — between  Binovitch  and 
Vera.  He  was  vigorously  patting  his  patient  on  the 
back,  and  his  voice  rose  easily  above  the  general  clamour. 
He  was  a  strong,  quiet  personality;  even  in  his  laughter 
there  was  authority.  And  his  laughter  now  was  the  only 
sound  in  the  room,  as  though  by  his  mere  presence  peace 
and  harmony  were  restored.  Confidence  came  with  him. 
The  noise  subsided ;  Vera  was  in  her  chair  again.  Khil- 
kofif  poured  out  a  glass  of  wine  for  the  great  man. 

"The  Czar!"  said  Plitzinger,  sipping  his  champagne, 
while  all  stood  up,  delighted  with  his  compliment  and 
tact.  "And  to  your  opening  night  with  the  Russian  bal- 
let," he  added  quickly  a  second  toast,  "or  to  your  first 
performance  at  the  Moscow  Theatre  des  Arts!"  Smil- 
ing significantly,  he  glanced  at  Binovitch;  he  clinked 
glasses  with  him.  Their  arms  were  already  linked,  but 
it  was  Palazov  who  noticed  that  the  doctor's  fingers 
seemed  rather  tight  upon  the  creased  black  coat.  All 
drank,  looking  with  laughter,  yet  with  a  touch  of  respect, 
toward  Binovitch,  who  stood  there  dwarfed  beside  the 
stalwart  Austrian,  and  suddenly  as  meek  and  subdued 
as  any  mole.  Apparently  the  abrupt  change  of  key  had 
taken  his  mind  successfully  off  something  else. 


The  Wings  of  Horus  49 

"Of  course — 'The  Fire-Bird,' "  exclaimed  the  little 
man,  mentioning  the  famous  Russian  ballet.  "The  very 
thing!"  he  exclaimed.  "For  us,"  he  added,  looking  with 
devouring  eyes  at  Vera.  He  was  greatly  pleased.  He 
began  talking  vociferously  about  dancing  and  the  ra- 
tionale of  dancing.  They  told  him  he  was  an  undiscov- 
ered master.  He  was  delighted.  He  winked  at  Vera  and 
touched  her  glass  again  with  his.  "We'll  make  our  debut 
together,"  he  cried.  "We'll  begin  at  Covent  Garden,  in 
London.  FU  design  the  dresses  and  the  posters  'The 
Hawk  and  the  Dove!'  Magnifique!  I  in  dark  grey,  and 
you  in  blue  and  gold !  Ah,  dancing,  you  know,  is  sacred. 
The  little  self  is  lost,  absorbed.  It  is  ecstasy,  it  is  divine. 
And  dancing  in  air — the  passion  of  the  birds  and  stars — 
ah!  they  are  the  movements  of  the  gods.  You  know 
deity  that  way — by  living  it." 

He  went  on  and  on.  His  entire  being  had  shifted 
with  a  leap  upon  this  new  subject.  The  idea  of  realising 
divinity  by  dancing  it  absorbed  him.  The  party  dis- 
cussed it  with  him  as  though  nothing  else  existed  in  the 
world,  all  sitting  now  and  talking  eagerly  together.  Vera 
took  the  cigarette  he  offered  her,  lighting  it  from  his 
own;  their  fingers  touched;  he  was  as  harmless  and 
normal  as  a  retired  diplomat  in  a  drawing-room.  But 
it  was  Plitzinger  whose  subtle  manoeuvring  had  accom- 
plished the  change  so  cleverly,  and  it  was  Plitzinger  who 
presently  suggested  a  game  of  billiards,  and  led  him  off, 
full  now  of  a  fresh  enthusiasm  for  cannons,  balls,  and 
pockets,  into  another  room.  They  departed  arm  in  arm, 
laughing  and  talking  together. 

Their  departure,  it  seemed,  made  no  great  difference 
at  first.  Vera's  eyes  watched  him  out  of  sight,  then 
turned  to  listen  to  Baron  Minski,  who  was  describing 
with  gusto  how  he  caught  wolves  alive  for  coursing  pur- 
poses. The  speed  and  power  of  the  wolf,  he  said,  was  im- 
possible to  realise;  the  force  of  their  awful  leap,  the 
strength  of  their  teeth,  which  could  bite  through  metal 


50  Day  and  Night  Stories 

stirrup-fastenings.  He  showed  a  scar  on  his  arm  and 
another  on  his  lip.  He  was  telling  truth,  and  everybody 
listened  with  deep  interest.  The  narrative  lasted  per- 
haps ten  minutes  or  more,  when  Minski  abruptly  stopped. 
He  had  come  to  an  end ;  he  looked  about  him ;  he  saw 
his  glass,  and  emptied  it.  There  was  a  general  pause. 
Another  subject  did  not  at  once  present  itself.  Sighs 
were  heard;  several  fidgeted;  fresh  cigarettes  were 
lighted.  But  there  was  no  sign  of  boredom,  for  where 
one  or  two  Russians  are  gathered  together  there  is 
always  life.  They  produce  gaiety  and  enthusiasm  as 
wind  produces  waves.  Like  great  children,  they  plunge 
whole-heartedly  into  whatever  interest  presents  itself  at 
the  rnoment.  There  is  a  kind  of  uncouth  gambolling  in 
their  way  of  taking  life.  It  seems  as  if  they  are  always 
fighting  that  deep,  underlying,  national  sadness  which 
creeps  into  their  very  blood. 

''Midnight !"  then  exclaimed  Palazov,  abruptly,  looking 
at  his  watch ;  and  the  others  fell  instantly  to  talking  about 
that  watch,  admiring  it  and  asking  questions.  For  the 
moment  that  very  ordinary  timepiece  became  the  centre 
of  observation.  Palazov  mentioned  the  price.  'Tt  never 
stops,"  he  said  proudly,  ''not  even  under  water."  He 
looked  up  at  everybody,  challenging  admiration.  And 
he  told  how,  at  a  country  house,  he  made  a  bet  that  he 
would  swim  to  a  certain  island  in  the  lake,  and  won  the 
bet.  He  and  a  girl  were  the  winners,  but  as  it  was  a 
horse  they  had  bet,  he  got  nothing  out  of  it  for  himself, 
giving  the  horse  to  her.  It  was  a  genuine  grievance  in 
him.  One  felt  he  could  have  cried  as  he  spoke  of  it. 
"But  the  watch  went  all  the  time,"  he  said  delightedly, 
holding  the  gun-metal  object  in  his  hand  to  show,  "and 
I  was  twelve  minutes  in  the  water  with  my  clothes  on." 

Yet  this  fragmentary  talk  was  nothing  but  pretence. 
The  sound  of  clicking  billiard-balls  was  audible  from  the 
room  at  the  end  of  the  corridor.  There  was  another 
pause.    The  pause,  however,  was  intentional.    It  was  not 


t  The  Wings  of  Horus  51 

vacuity  of  mind  or  absence  of  ideas  that  caused  it.  There 
was  another  subject,  an  unfinished  subject  that  each 
member  of  the  group  was  still  considering.  Only  no  one 
cared  to  begin  about  it  till  at  last,  unable  to  resist  the 
strain  any  longer,  Palazov  turned  to  Khilkoff,  who  was 
saying  he  would  take  a  "whisky-soda,"  as  the  champagne 
was  too  sweet,  and  whispered  something  beneath  his 
breath ;  whereupon  K,hilkoff,  forgetting  his  drink,  glanced 
at  his  sister,  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  made  a  curious 
grimace.  "He's  all  right  now" — his  reply  was  just  audi- 
ble— "he's  with  Plitzinger."  He  cocked  his  head  sidewise 
to  indicate  that  the  clicking  of  the  billiard-balls  still 
was  going  on. 

The  subject  was  out:  all  turned  their  heads;  voices 
hummed  and  buzzed ;  questions  were  asked  and  answered 
or  half  answered;  eyebrows  were  raised,  shoulders 
shrugged,  hands  spread  out  expressively.  There  came 
into  the  atmosphere  a  feeling  of  presentiment,  of  mys- 
tery, of  things  half  understood;  primitive,  buried  in- 
stinct stirred  a  little,  the  kind  of  racial  dread  of  vague 
emotions  that  might  gain  the  upper  hand  if  encouraged. 
They  shrank  from  looking  something  in  the  face,  while 
yet  this  unwelcome  influence  drew  closer  round  them  all. 
They  discussed  Binovitch  and  his  astonishing  per- 
formance: Pretty  little  Vera  listened  with  large  and 
troubled  eyes,  though  saying  nothing.  The  Arab  waiter 
had  put  out  the  lights  in  the  corridor,  and  only  a  solitary 
cluster  burned  now  above  their  heads,  leaving  their 
faces  in  shadow.  In  the  distance  the  clicking  of  the 
billiard-balls  still  continued. 

"It  was  not  play;  it  was  real,"  exclaimed  Minski 
vehemently.  "I  can  catch  wolves,"  he  blurted ;  "but  birds 
— ugh! — and  human  birds!"  He  was  half  inarticulate. 
He  had  witnessed  something  he  could  not  understand, 
and  it  had  touched  instinctive  terror  in  him.  "It  was  the 
way  he  leaped  that  put  the  wolf  first  into  my  mind,  only 
it  was  not  a  wolf  at  all."     The  others  agreed  and  dis- 


52  Day  and  Night  Stories 

agreed.  "It  was  play  at  first,  but  it  was  reality  at  the 
end,"  another  whispered;  "and  it  was  no  animal  he 
mimicked,  but  a  bird,  and  a  bird  of  prey  at  that !" 

Vera  thrilled.  In  the  Russian  woman  hides  that  touch 
of  savagery  which  loves  to  be  caught,  mastered,  swept 
helplessly  away,  captured  utterly  and  deliciously  by  the 
one  strong  enough  to  do  it  thoroughly.  She  left  her  chair 
and  sat  down  beside  an  older  woman  in  the  party,  who 
took  her  arm  quietly  at  once.  Her  little  face  wore  a 
perplexed  expression,  mournful,  yet  somehow  wild.  It 
was  clear  that  Binovitch  was  not  indifferent  to  her. 

"It's  become  an  idee  fixe  with  him,"  this  older  woman 
said.  "The  bird  idea  lives  in  his  mind.  He  lives  it  in 
his  imagination.  Ever  since  that  time  at  Edfu,  when  he 
pretended  to  worship  the  great  stone  falcons  outside 
the  temple — the  Horus  figures — he's  been  full  of  it."  She 
stopped.  The  way  Binovitch  had  behaved  at  Edfu  was 
better  left  unmentioned  at  the  moment,  perhaps.  A  slight 
shiver  ran  round  the  listening  group,  each  one  waiting 
for  some  one  else  to  focus  their  emotion,  and  so  explain  it 
by  saying  the  convincing  thing.  Only  no  one  ventured. 
Then  Vera  abruptly  gave  a  little  jump. 

"Hark!"  she  exclaimed,  in  a  staccato  whisper,  speak- 
ing for  the  first  time.  She  sat  bolt  upright.  She  was 
listening.  "Hark !"  she  repeated.  "There  it  is  again,  but 
nearer  than  before.  It's  coming  closer.  I  hear  it."  She 
trembled.  Her  voice,  her  manner,  above  all  her  great 
staring  eyes,  startled  everybody.  No  one  spoke  for  sev- 
eral seconds;  all  listened.  The  cHcking  of  the  billiard- 
balls  had  ceased.  The  halls  and  corridors  lay  in  dark- 
ness, and  gloom  was  over  the  big  hotel.  Everybody  was 
in  bed. 

"Hear  what?"  asked  the  older  woman  soothingly,  yet 
with  a  perceptible  quaver  in  her  voice,  too.  She  was 
aware  that  the  girl's  arm  shook  upon  her  own. 

"Do  you  not  hear  it,  too  ?"  the  girl  whispered. 

All  listened  without  speaking.     All  watched  her  paling 


The  Wings  of  Horus  53 

face.  Something  wonderful,  yet  half  terrible,  seemed  in 
the  air  about  them.  There  was  a  dull  murmur,  audible, 
faint,  remote,  its  direction  hard  to  tell.  It  had  come  sud- 
denly from  nowhere.  They  shivered.  That  strange 
racial  thrill  again  passed  into  the  group,  unwelcome,  un- 
explained. It  was  aboriginal;  it  belonged  to  the  uncon- 
scious primitive  mind,  half  childish,  half  terrifying. 

'What  do  you  hear?"  her  brother  asked  angrily — the 
irritable  anger  of  nervous  fear. 

**When  he  came  at  me,"  she  answered  very  low,  "I 
heard  it  first.  I  hear  it  now  again.  Listen !  He's  com- 
ing." 

And  at  that  minute,  out  of  the  dark  mouth  of  the  corri- 
dor, emerged  two  human  figures,  Plitzinger  and  Bino- 
vitch.  Their  game  was  over :  they  were  going  up  to  bed. 
They  passed  the  open  door  of  the  card-room.  But  Bino- 
vitch  was  being  half  dragged,  half  restrained,  for  he  was 
apparently  attempting  to  run  down  the  passage  with 
flying,  dancing  leaps.  He  bounded.  It  was  like  a  huge 
bird  trying  to  rise  for  flight,  while  his  companion  kept 
him  down  by  force  upon  the  earth.  As  they  entered  the 
strip  of  light,  Plitzinger  changed  his  own  position,  placing 
himself  swiftly  between  his  companion  and  the  group  in 
the  dark  corner  of  the  room.  He  hurried  Binovitch  along 
as  though  he  sheltered  him  from  view.  They  passed 
into  the  shadows  down  the  passage.  -They  disappeared. 
And  every  one  looked  significantly,  questioningly,  at  his 
neighbour,  though  at  first  saying  no  word.  It  seemed 
that  a  curious  disturbance  of  the  air  had  followed  them 
audibly. 

Vera  was  the  first  to  open  her  lips.  "You  heard  it 
then/'  she  said  breathlessly,  her  face  whiter  than  the 
ceiling. 

"Damn!"  exclaimed  her  brother  furiously.  *Tt  was 
wind  against  the  outside  walls — wind  in  the  desert.  The 
sand  is  driving." 

\ 


54  Day  and  Night  Stories  ^ 

Vera  looked  at  him.  She  shrank  closer  against  the  side 
of  the  older  woman,  whose  arm  was  tight  about  her. 

'*It  was  not  wind,"  she  whispered  simply.  She  paused. 
All  waited  uneasily  for  the  completion  of  her  sentence. 
They  stared  into  her  face  like  peasants  who  expected  a 
miracle. 

"Wings,"  she  whispered.  *'It  was  the  sound  of  enor- 
mous wings." 

And  at  four  o'ck)ck  in  the  morning,  when  they  all 
returned  exhausted  from  their  excursion  into  the  desert, 
little  Binovitch  was  sleeping  soundly  and  peacefully  in 
his  bed.  They  passed  his  door  on  tiptoe.  But  he  did 
not  hear  them.  He  was  dreaming.  His  spirit  was  at 
Edfu,  experiencing  with  that  ancient  deity  who  was  mas- 
ter of  all  flying  life  those  strange  enjoyments  upon  which 
his  own  troubled  human  heart  was  passionately  set.  Safe 
with  that  mighty  falcon  whose  powers  his  lips  had  scorned 
a  few  hours  before,  his  soul,  released  in  vivid  dream, 
went  sweetly  flying.  It  was  amazing,  it  was  gorgeous. 
He  skimmed  the  Nile  at  lightning  speed.  Dashing  down 
headlong  from  the  height  of  the  great  Pyramid,  he 
chased  with  faultless  accuracy  a  little  dove  that  sought 
vainly  to  hide  from  his  terrific  pursuit  beneath  the  palm 
trees.  For  what  he  loved  must  worship  where  he  wor- 
shipped, and  the  majesty  of  those  tremendous  efiigies  had 
fired  his  imagination  to  the  creative  point  where  expres- 
sion was  imperative. 

Then  suddenly,  at  the  very  moment  of  delicious  cap- 
ture, the  dream  turned  horrible,  becoming  awful  with  the 
nightmare  touch.  The  sky  lost  all  its  blue  and  sunshine. 
Far,  far  below  him  the  little  dove  enticed  him  into  name- 
less depths,  so  that  he  flew  faster  and  faster,  yet  never 
fast  enough  to  overtake  it.  Behind  him  came  a  great 
thing  down  the  air,  black,  hovering,  with  gigantic  wings 
outstretched.  It  had  terrific  eyes,  and  the  beating  of  its 
feathers  stole  his  wind  away.     It  followed  him,  crowd- 


The  Wings  of  Horus  55 

ing  space.  He  was  aware  of  a  colossal  beak,  curved  like 
a  scimitar  and  pointed  wickedly  like  a  tooth  of  iron.  He 
dropped.     He  faltered.     He  tried  to  scream. 

Through  empty  space  he  fell,  caught  by  the  neck.  The 
huge  spectral  falcon  was  upon  him.  The  talons  were  in 
his  heart.  And  in  sleep  he  remembered  then  that  he  had 
cursed.  He  recalled  his  reckless  language.  The  curse 
of  the  ignorant  is  meaningless;  that  of  the  worshipper 
is  real.  This  attack  was  on  his  soul.  He  had  invoked  it. 
He  realised  next,  with  a  touch  of  ghastly  horror,  that  the 
dove  he  chased  was,  after  all,  the  bait  that  had  lured  him 
purposely  to  destruction,  and  awoke  with  a  suffocating 
terror  upon  him,  and  his  entire  body  bathed  in  icy  per- 
spiration. Outside  the  open  window  he  heard  a  sound  of 
wings  retreating  with  powerful  strokes  into  the  sur- 
rounding darkness  of  the  sky. 

The  nightmare  made  its  impression  upon  Binovitch's 
impressionable  and  dramatic  temperament.  It  aggra- 
vated his  tendencies.  He  related  it  next  day  to  Mme.  de 
Driihn,  the  friend  of  Vera,  telling  it  with  that  somewhat 
boisterous  laughter  some  minds  use  to  disguise  less  kind 
emotions.  But  he  received  no  encouragement.  The 
mood  of  the  previous  night  was  not  recoverable;  it  was 
already  ancient  history.  Russians  never  make  the  banal 
mistake  of  repeating  a  sensation  till  it  is  exhausted ;  they 
hurry  on  to  novelties.  Life  flashes  and  rushes  with  them, 
never  standing  still  for  exposure  before  the  cameras  of 
their  minds.  Mme.  de  Driihn,  however,  took  the  trouble 
to  mention  the  matter  to  Plitzinger,  for  Plitzinger,  like 
Freud  of  Vienna,  held  that  dreams  revealed  subconscious 
tendencies  which  sooner  or  later  must  betray  themselves 
in  action. 

"Thank  you  for  telling  me,"  he  smiled  politely,  "but 
I  have  already  heard  it  from  him."  He  watched  her  eyes 
for  a  moment,  really  examining  her  soul.  "Binovitch, 
you  see,"  he  continued,  apparently  satisfied  with  what  he 
saw,  'T  regard  as  that  rare  phenomenon — a  genius  with- 


56  Day  and  Night  Stories 

out  an  outlet!'  His  spirit,  intensely  creative,  finds  no 
adequate  expression.  His  power  of  production  is  enor- 
mous and  prolific;  yet  he  accomplishes  nothing."  He 
paused  an  instant.  "Binovitch,  therefore,  is  in  danger 
of  poisoning — himself."  He  looked  steadily  into  her 
face,  as  a  man  who  weighs  how  much  he  may  confide. 
'*Now,"  he  continued,  ''if  we  can  find  an  outlet  for  him, 
a  field  wherein  his  bursting  imaginative  genius  can  pro- 
duce results — above  all,  visible  results" — he  shrugged  his 
shoulders — ''the  man  is  saved.  Otherwise" — he  looked 
extraordinarily  impressive — "there  is  bound  to  be  sooner 
or  later " 

''Madness?"  she  asked  very  quietly. 

"An  explosion,  let  us  say,"  he  replied  gravely.  "For 
instance,  take  this  Horus  obsession  of  his,  quite  wrong 
archaeologically  though  it  is.  Au  fond  it  is  megalomania 
of  a  most  unusual  kind.  His  passionate  interest,  his  love, 
his  worship  of  birds,  wholesome  enough  in  itself,  finds  no 
satisfying  outlet.  A  man  who  really  loves  birds  neither 
keeps  them  in  cages  nor  shoots  them  nor  stuffs  them. 
What,  then,  can  he  do?  The  commonplace  bird-lover 
observes  them  through  glasses,  studies  their  habits,  then 
writes  a  book  about  them.  But  a  man  like  Binovitch, 
overflowing  with  this  intense  creative  power  of  mind  and 
imagination,  is  not  content  with  that.  He  wants  to  know 
them  from  within.  He  wants  to  feel  what  they  feel,  to 
live  their  life.  He  wants  to  become  them.  You  follow 
me?  Not  quite.  Well,  he  seeks  to  be  identified  with 
the  object  of  his  sacred,  passionate  adoration.  All  genius 
seeks  to  know  the  thing  itself  from  its  own  point  of  view. 
It  desires  union.  That  tendency,  unrecognised  by  him- 
self, perhaps,  and  therefore  subconscious,  hides  in  his 
very  soul."  He  paused  a  moment.  "And  the  sudden 
sight  of  those  majestic  figures  at  Edfu — that  crystallisa- 
tion of  his  idee  Hxe  in  granite — took  hold  of  this  excess 
in  him,  so  to  speak — and  is  now  focusing  it  toward  some 


The  Wings  of  Horus  57 

definite  act.  Binovitch  sometimes — feels  himself  a  bird! 
You  noticed  what  occurred  last  night?" 

She  nodded ;  a  slight  shiver  passed  over  her. 

*'A  most  curious  performance,"  she  murmured;  "an 
exhibition  I  never  want  to  see  again." 

"The  most  curious  part,"  replied  the  doctor  coolly, 
"was  its  truth." 

"Its  truth !"  she  exclaimed  beneath  her  breath.  She 
was  frightened  by  something  in  his  voice  and  by  the  un- 
common gravity  in  his  eyes.  It  seemed  to  arrest  her 
intelligence.  She  felt  upon  the  edge  of  things  beyond 
her.  "You  mean  that  Binovitch  did  for  a  moment — hang 
— in  the  air?"  The  other  verb,  the  right  one,  she  could 
not  bring  herself  to  use. 

The  great  man's  face  was  enigmatical.  He  talked  to 
her  sympathy,  perhaps,  rather  than  to  her  mind. 

"Real  genius,"  he  said  smilingly,  "is  as  rare  as  talent, 
even  great  talent,  is  common.  It  means  that  the  person- 
ality, if  only  for  one  second,  becomes  everything;  be- 
comes the  universe;  becomes  the  soul  of  the  world.  It 
gets  the  flash.  It  is  identified  with  the  universal  life. 
Being  everything  and^  everywhere,  all  is  possible  to  it — 
in  that  second  of  vivid  realisation.  It  can  brood  with 
the  crystal,  grow  with  the  plant,  leap  with  the  animal, 
fly  with  the  bird :  genius  unifies  all  three.  That  is  the 
meaning  of  'creative.'  It  is  faith.  Knowing  it,  you  can 
pass  through  fire  and  not  be  burned,  walk  on  water  and 
not  sink,  move  a  mountain,  fly.  Because  you  are  fire, 
water,  earth,  air.  Genius,  you  see,  is  madness  in  the 
magnificent  sense  of  being  superhuman.  Binovitch  has 
it." 

He  broke  oflf  abruptly,  seeing  he  was  not  understood. 
Some  great  enthusiasm  in  him  he  deliberately  suppressed. 

"The  point  is,"  he  resumed,  speaking  more  carefully, 
"that  we  must  try  to  lead  this  passionate  constructive 
genius  of  the  man  into  some  human  channel  that  will 
absorb  it,  and  therefore  render  it  harmless." 


58  Day  and  Night  Stories 

"He  loves  Vera,"  the  woman  said,  bewildered,  yet  seiz- 
ing this  point  correctly. 

"But  would  he  marry  her?"  asked  Plitzinger  at  once. 

"He  is  already  married." 

The  doctor  looked  steadily  at  her  a  moment,  hesitating 
whether  he  should  utter  all  his  thought. 

"In  that  case,"  he  said  slowly  after  a  pause,  "it  is  better 
he  or  she  should  leave." 

His  tone  and  manner  were  exceedingly  impressive. 

"You  mean  there's  danger  ?"  she  asked. 

"I  mean,  rather,"  he  replied  earnestly,  "that  this  great 
creative  flood  in  him,  so  curiously  focused  now  upon  his 
Horus-falcon-bird  idea,  may  result  in  some  act  of  vio- 
lence  " 

"Which  would  be  madness,"  she  said,  looking  hard 
at  him. 

"Which  would  be  disastrous,"  he  corrected  her.  And 
then  he  added  slowly:  "Because  in  the  mental  moment 
of  immense  creation  he  might  overlook  material  laws." 

The  costume  ball  two  nights  later  was  a  great  success. 
Palazov  was  a  Bedouin,  and  Khilkoff  an  Apache ;  Mme. 
de  Driihn  wore  a  national  head-dress;  Minski  looked 
almost  natural  as  Don  Quixote;  and  the  entire  Russian 
"set"  was  cleverly,  if  somewhat  extravagantly,  dressed. 
But  Binovitch  and  Vera  were  the  most  successful  of  all 
the  two  hundred  dancers  who  took  part.  Another  figure, 
a  big  man  dressed  as  a  Pierrot,  also  claimed  exceptional 
attention,  for  though  the  costume  was  commonplace 
enough,  there  was  something  of  dignity  in  his  appearance 
that  drew  the  eyes  of  all  upon  him.  But  he  wore  a  mask, 
and  his  identity  was  not  discoverable. 

It  was  Binovitch  and  Vera,  however,  who  must  have 
won  the  prize,  if  prize  there  had  been,  for  they  not  only 
looked  their  parts,  but  acted  them  as  well.  The  former 
in  his  dark  grey  feather  tunic,  and  his  falcon  mask,  com- 
plete even  to  the  brown  hooked  beak  and  tufted  talons, 


The  Wings  of  Horus  59 

looked  fierce  and  splendid.  The  disguise  was  so  admira- 
ble, yet  so  entirely  natural,  that  it  was  uncommonly  seduc- 
tive. Vera,  in  blue  and  gold,  a  charming  head-dress  of 
a  dove  upon  her  loosened  hair,  and  a  pair  of  little  dove- 
pale  wings  fluttering  from  her  shoulders,  her  tiny  twin- 
kling feet  and  slender  ankles  well  visible,  too,  was  equally 
vsuccessful  and  admired.  Her  large  and  timid  eyes,  her 
flitting  movements,  her  light  and  dainty  way  of  dancing 
— all  added  touches  that  made  the  picture  perfect. 

How  Binovitch  contrived  his  dress  remained  a  mys- 
tery, for  the  layers  of  wings  upon  his  back  were  real; 
the  large  black  kites  that  haunt  the  Nile,  soaring  in  their 
hundreds  over  Cairo  and  the  bleak  Mokattam  Hills,  had 
furnished  them.  He  had  procured  them  none  knew 
how.  They  measured  four  feet  across  from  tip  to  tip; 
they  swished  and  rustled  as  he  swept  along;  they  were 
true  falcons'  wings.  He  danced  with  Nautch-girls  and 
Egyptian  princesses  and  Rumanian  Gipsies;  he  danced 
well,  with  beauty,  grace,  and  lightness.  But  with  Vera 
he  did  not  dance  at  all ;  with  her  he  simply  flew,  A  kind 
of  passionate  abandon  was  in  him  as  he  skimmed  the  floor 
with  her  in  a  way  that  made  everybody  turn  to  watch 
them.  They  seemed  to  leave  the  ground  together.  It 
was  delightful,  an  amazing  sight;  but  it  was  peculiar. 
The  strangeness  of  it  was  on  many  lips.  Somehow  its 
queer  extravagance  communicated  itself  to  the  entire 
ball-room.  They  became  the  centre  of  observation. 
There  were  whispers. 

"There's  that  extraordinary  bird-man!  Look!  He 
goes  by  like  a  hawk.  And  he's  always  after  that  dove- 
girl.  How  marvellously  he  does  it!  It's  rather  awful. 
Who  is  he?    I  don't  envy  her/' 

People  stood  aside  when  he  rushed  past.  They  got  out 
of  his  way.  He  seemed  forever  pursuing  Vera,  even 
when  dancing  with  another  partner.  Word  passed  from 
mouth  to  mouth.  A  kind  of  telepathic  interest  was  estab- 
lished everywhere.     It  was  a  shade  too  real  sometimes. 


6o  Day  and  Night  Stories 

something  unduly  earnest  in  the  chasing  wildness,  some- 
thing unpleasant.     There  was  even  alarm. 

"It's  rowdy;  I'd  rather  not  see  it;  it's  quite  disgrace- 
ful," was  heard.  *7  think  it's  horrible ;  you  can  see  she's 
terrified." 

And  once  there  was  a  Httle  scene,  trivial  enough,  yet 
betraying  this  reality  that  many  noticed  and  disliked. 
Binovitch  came  up  to  claim  a  dance,  programme  clutched 
in  his  great  tufted  claws,  and  at  the  same  moment  the 
big  Pierrot  appeared  abruptly  round  the  corner  with  a 
similar  claim.  Those  who  saw  it  assert  he  had  been 
waiting,  and  came  on  purpose,  and  that  there  was  some- 
thing protective  and  authoritative  in  his  bearing.  The 
misunderstanding  was  ordinary  enough — both  men  had 
written  her  name  against  the  dance — but  ''No.  13,  Tango" 
also  included  the  supper  interval,  and  neither  Hawk  nor 
Pierrot  would  give  way.  They  were  very  obstinate. 
Both  men  wanted  her.     It  was  awkward. 

'The  Dove  shall  decide  between  us,"  smiled  the  Hawk 
politely,  yet  his  taloned  fingers  working  nervously. 
Pierrot,  however,  more  experienced  in  the  ways  of  deal- 
ing with  women,  or  more  bold,  said  suavely: 

"I  am  ready  to  abide  by  her  decision" — his  voice  poorly 
cloaked  this  aggravating  authority,  as  though  he  had  the 
right  to  her — ''only  I  engaged  this  dance  before  his 
Majesty  Horus  appeared  upon  the  scene  at  all,  and  there- 
fore it  is  clear  that  Pierrot  has  the  right  of  way." 

At  once,  with  a  masterful  air,  he  took  her  off.  There 
was  no  withstanding  him.  He  meant  to  have  her  and  he 
got  her.  She  yielded  meekly.  They  vanished  among  the 
maze  of  coloured  dancers,  leaving  the  Hawk,  disconsolate 
and  vanquished,  amid  the  titters  of  the  onlookers.  His 
swiftness,  as  against  this  steady  power,  was  of  no  avail. 

It  was  then  that  the  singular  phenomenon  was  wit- 
nessed first.  Those  who  saw  it  affirm  that  he  changed 
absolutely  into  the  part  he  played.     It  was  dreadful;  it 


The  Wings  of  Horus  6i 

was  wicked.  A  frightened  whisper  ran  about  the  rooms 
and  corridors : 

''An  extraordinary  thing  is  in  the  air!" 

Some  shrank  away,  while  others  flocked  to  see.  There 
were  those  who  swore  that  a  curious,  rushing  sound  was 
audible,  the  atmosphere  visibly  disturbed  and  shaken; 
that  a  shadow  fell  upon  the  spot  the  couple  had  vacated ; 
that  a  cry  was  heard,  a  high,  wild,  searching  cry: 
''Horus !  bright  deity  of  wind,"  it  began,  then  died  away. 
One  man  was  positive  that  the  windows  had  been  opened 
and  that  something  had  flown  in.  It  was  the  obvious 
explanation.  The  thing  spread  horribly.  As  in  a 
fire-panic,  there  was  consternation  and  excitement. 
Confusion  caught  the  feet  of  all  the  dancers.  The  music 
fumbled  and  lost  time.  The  leading  pair  of  tango  danc- 
ers halted  and  looked  round.  It  seemed  that  everybody 
pressed  back,  hiding,  shuffling,  eager  to  see,  yet  more 
eager  not  to  be  seen,  as  though  something  dangerous, 
hostile,  terrible,  had  broken  loose.  In  rows  against  the 
wall  they  stood.  For  a  great  space  had  made  itself  in 
the  middle  of  the  ball-room,  and  into  this  empty  space 
appeared  suddenly  the  Pierrot  and  the  Dove. 

It  was  Hke  a  challenge.  A  sound  of  applause,  half 
voices,  half  clapping  of  gloved  hands,  was  heard.  The 
couple  danced  exquisitely  into  the  arena.  All  stared. 
There  was  an  impression  that  a  set  piece  had  been  pre- 
pared, and  that  this  was  its  beginning.  The  music  again 
took  heart.  Pierrot  was  strong  and  dignified,  no  whit 
nonplussed  by  this  abrupt  publicity.  The  Dove,  though 
faltering,  was  deliciously  obedient.  They  danced  to- 
gether like  a  single  outline.  She  was  captured  utterly. 
And  to  the  man  who  needed  her  the  sight  was  naturally 
agonizing — the  protective  way  the  Pierrot  held  her,  the 
right  and  strength  of  it,  the  mastery,  the  complete  posses- 
sion. 

"He's  got  her!"  some  one  breathed  too  loud,  uttering 
the  thought  of  all.    "Good  thing  it's  not  the  Hawk !" 


62  Day  and  Night  Stories 

And,  to  the  absolute  amazement  of  the  throng,  this 
sight  was  then  apparent.  A  figure  dropped  through 
space.     That  high,  shrill  cry  again  was  heard : 

"Feather  my  soul  ...  to  know  thy  awful  swift- 
ness !" 

Its  singing  loveliness  touched  the  heart,  its  appealing, 
passionate  sweetness  was  marvellous,  as  from  the  gallery 
this  figure  of  a  man,  dressed  as  a  strong,  dark  bird,  shot 
down  with  splendid  grace  and  ease.  The  feathers  swept ; 
the  swings  spread  out  as  sails  that  take  the  wind.  Like 
a  hawk  that  darts  with  unerring  power  and  aim  upon 
its  prey,  this  thing  of  mighty  wings  rushed  down  into 
the  empty  space  where  the  two  danced.  Observed  by 
all,  he  entered,  swooping  beautifully,  stretching  his  wings 
like  any  eagle.  He  dropped.  He  fixed  his  point  of 
landing  with  consummate  skill  close  beside  the  astonished 
dancers.     He  landed. 

It  happened  with  such  swiftness  it  brought  the  dazzle 
and  blindness  as  when  lightning  strikes.  People  in  dif- 
ferent parts  of  the  room  saw  different  details ;  a  few  saw 
nothing  at  all  after  the  first  startling  shock,  closing  their 
eyes,  or  holding  their  arms  before  their  faces  as  in  self- 
protection.  The  touch  of  panic  fear  caught  the  entire 
room.  The  nameless  thing  that  all  the  evening  had  been 
vaguely  felt  was  come.     It  had  suddenly  materialised. 

For  this  incredible  thing  occurred  in  the  full  blaze  of 
light  upon  the  open  floor.  Binovitch,  grown  in  some 
sense  formidable,  opened  his  dark,  big  wings  about  the 
girl.  The  long  grey  feathers  moved,  causing  powerful 
draughts  of  wind  that  made  a  rushing  sound.  An  aspect 
of  the  terrible  was  about  him,  like  an  emanation.  The 
great  beaked  head  was  poised  to  strike,  the  tufted  claws 
were  raised  like  fingers  that  shut  and  opened,  and  the 
whole  presentment  of  his  amazing  figure  focused  in  an 
attitude  of  attack  that  was  magnificent  and  terrible.  No 
one  who  saw  it  doubted.  Yet  there  were  those  who 
swore  that  it  was  not  Binovitch  at  all,  but  that  another 


The  Wings  of  Horus  63 

outline,  monstrous  and  shadowy,  towered  above  him, 
draping  his  lesser  proportions  with  two  colossal  wings 
of  darkness.  That  some  touch  of  strange  divinity  lay 
in  it  may  be  claimed,  however  confused  the  wild  descrip- 
tions afterward.  For  many  lowered  their  heads  and 
bowed  their  shoulders.  There  was  terror.  There  was 
also  awe.  The  onlookers  swayed  as  though  some  power 
passed  over  them  through  the  air. 
"  A  sound  of  wings  was  certainly  in  the  room. 

Then  some  one  screamed;  a  shriek  broke  high  and 
clear;  and  emotion,  ordinary  human  emotion,  unaccus- 
tomed to  terrific  things,  swept  loose.  The  Hawk  and 
Vera  flew.  Beaten  back  against  the  wall  as  by  a  stroke 
of  whirlwind,  the  Pierrot  staggered.  He  watched  them 
go.  Out  of  the  lighted  room  they  flew,  out  of  the 
crowded  human  atmosphere,  out  of  the  heat  and  artificial 
light,  the  walled-in,  airless  halls  that  were  a  cage.  All 
this  they  left  behind.  They  seemed  things  of  wind  and 
air,  made  free  happily  of  another  element.  Earth  held 
them  not.  Toward  the  open  night  they  raced  with  this 
extraordinary  lightness  as  of  birds,  down  the  long  corri- 
dor and  on  to  the  southern  terrace,  where  great  coloured 
curtains  were  hung  suspended  from  the  columns.  A 
moment  they  were  visible.  Then  the  fringe  of  one  huge 
curtain,  lifted  by  the  wind,  showed  their  dark  outline  for 
a  second  against  the  starry  sky.  There  was  a  cry,  a  leap. 
The  curtain  flapped  again  and  closed.  They  vanished. 
And  into  the  ball-room  swept  the  cold  draught  of  night 
air  from  the  desert. 

But  three  figures  instantly  were  close  upon  their  heels. 
The  throng  of  half-dazed,  half-stupefied  onlookers,  it 
seemed,  projected  them  as  though  by  some  explosive 
force.  The  general  mass  held  back,  but,  like  projectiles, 
these  three  flung  themselves  after  the  fugitives  down  the 
corridor  at  high  speed — the  Apache,  Don  Quixote,  and, 
last  of  them,  the  Pierrot.  For  Khilkoff,  the  brother,  and 
Baron  Minski,  the  man  who  caught  wolves  alive,  had 


64  Day  and  Night  Stories  i 

been  for  some  time  keenly  on  the  watch,  while  Dr.  Plit- 
zinger,  reading  the  symptoms  clearly,  never  far  away,  had 
been  faithfully  observant  of  every  movement.  His  mask 
tossed  aside,  the  great  psychiatrist  was  now  recognised  by 
all.  They  reached  the  parapet  just  as  the  curtain  flapped 
back  heavily  into  place;  the  next  second  all  three  were 
out  of  sight  behind  it.  Khilkoff  was  first,  however, 
urged  forward  at  frantic  speed  by  the  warning  words 
the  doctor  had  whispered  as  they  ran.  Some  thirty  yards 
beyond  the  terrace  was  the  brink  of  the  crumbling  cliff  on 
which  the  great  hotel  was  built,  and  there  was  a  drop  of 
sixty  feet  to  the  desert  floor  below.  Only  a  low  stone 
wall  marked  the  edge. 

Accounts  varied.  Khilkoff,  it  seems,  arrived  in  time — 
in  the  nick  of  time — to  seize  his  sister,  virtually  hovering 
on  the  brink. '^  He  heard  the  loose  stones  strike  the  sand 
below.  There  was  no  struggle,  though  it  appears  she 
did  not  thank  him  for  his  interference  at  first.  In  a 
sense  she  was  beside — outside — herself.  And  he  did  a 
characteristic  thing:  he  not  only  brought  her  back  into 
the  ball-room,  but  he  danced  her  back.  It  was  admirable. 
Nothing  could  have  calmed  the  general  excitement  bet- 
ter. The  pair  of  them  danced  in  together  as  though  noth- 
ing was  amiss.  Accustomed  to  the  strenuous  practice  of 
his  Cossack  regiment,  this  young  cavalry  officer's  mus- 
cles were  equal  to  the  semi-dead  weight  in  his  arms.  At 
most  the  onlookers  thought  her  tired,  perhaps.  Confi- 
dence was  restored — such  is  the  psychology  of  a  crowd — 
and  in  the  middle  of  a  thrilHng  Viennese  waltz  he  easily 
smuggled  her  out  of  the  room,  administered  brandy,  and 
got  her  up  to  bed.  The  absence  of  the  Hawk,  meanwhile, 
was  hardly  noticed ;  comments  were  made  and  then  for- 
gotten; it  was  Vera  in  whom  the  strange,  anxious  sym- 
pathy had  centred.  And,  with  her  obvious  safety,  the 
moment  of  primitive,  childish  panic  passed  away.  Don 
Quixote,  too,  was  presently  seen  dancing  gaily  as  though 
nothing  untoward  had  happened;  supper  intervened;  the 


The  Wings  of  Horus  65 

incident  was  over ;  it  had  melted  into  the  general  wildness 
of  the  evening's  irresponsibility.  The  fact  that  Pierrot 
did  not  appear  again  was  noticed  by  no  single  person. 

But  Dr.  Plitzinger  was  otherwise  engaged,  his  heart 
and  mind  and  soul  all  deeply  exercised.  A  death-certifi- 
cate is  not  always  made  out  quite  so  simply  as  the  public 
thinks.  That  Binovitch  had  died  of  suffocation  in  his 
swift  descent  through  merely  sixty  feet  of  air  was  not 
conceivable ;  yet  that  his  body  lay  so  neatly  placed  upon 
the  desert  after  such  a  fall  was  stranger  still.  It  was  not 
crumpled,  it  was  not  torn;  no  single  bone  was  broken, 
no  muscle  wrenched;  there  was  no  bruise.  There  was 
no  indenture  in  the  sand.  The  figure  lay  sidewise  as 
though  in  sleep,  no  sign  of  violence  visible  anywhere,  the 
dark  wings  folded  as  a  great  bird  folds  them  when  it 
creeps  away  to  die  in  loneliness.  Beneath  the  Horus 
mask  the  face  was  smiling.  It  seemed  he  had  floated  into 
death  upon  the  element  he  loved.  And  only  Vera  had 
seen  the  enormous  wings  that,  hovering  invitingly  above 
the  dark  abyss,  bore  him  so  softly  into  another  world. 
Plitzinger,  that  is,  saw  them,  too,  but  he  said  firmly  that 
they  belonged  to  the  big  black  falcons  that  haunt  the 
Mokattam  Hills  and  roost  upon  these  ridges,  close  beside 
the  hotel,  at  night.  Both  he  and  Vera,  however,  agreed 
on  one  thing:  the  high,  sharp  cry  in  the  air  above  them, 
wild  and  plaintive,  was  certainly  the  black  kite's  cry — the 
note  of  the  falcon  that  passionately  seeks  its  mate.  It 
was  the  pause  of  a  second,  when  she  stood  to  listen,  that 
made  her  rescue  possible.  A  moment  later  and  she,  too, 
would  have  flown  to  death  with  Binovitch. 


IVi 

INITIATION 

A  FEW  years  ago,  on  a  Black  Sea  steamer  heading  for 
the  Caucasus,  I  fell  into  conversation  with  an  American. 
He  mentioned  that  he  was  on  his  way  to  the  Baku  oil- 
fields, and  I  replied  that  I  was  going  up  into  the  moun- 
tains. He  looked  at  me  questioningly  a  moment.  "Your 
first  trip  ?"  he  asked  with  interest.  I  said  it  was.  A  con- 
versation followed;  it  was  continued  the  next  day,  and 
renewed  the  following  day,  until  we  parted  company  at 
Batoum.  I  don't  know  why  he  talked  so  freely  to  me  in 
particular.  Normall}'^,  he  was  a  taciturn,  silent  man.  We 
had  been  fellow  travellers  from  Marseilles,  but  after 
Constantinople  we  had  the  boat  pretty  much  to  ourselves. 
What  struck  me  about  him  was  his  vehement,  almost  pas- 
sionate, love  of  natural  beauty — in  seas  and  woods  and 
sky,  but  above  all  in  mountains.  It  was  like  a  religion 
in  him.     His  taciturn  manner  hid  deep  poetic  feeling. 

And  he  told  me  it  had  not  always  been  so  with  him. 
A  kind  of  friendship  sprang  up  between  us.  He  was  a 
New  York  business  man — buying  and  selling  exchange 
between  banks — but  was  English  born.  He  had  gone  out 
thirty  years  before,  and  become  naturaHsed.  His  talk 
was  exceedingly  "American,"  slangy,  and  almost  West- 
ern. He  said  he  had  roughed  it  in  the  West  for  a  year  or 
two  first.  But  what  he  chiefly  talked  about  was  moun- 
tains. He  said  it  was  in  the  mountains  an  unusual  expe- 
rience had  come  to  him  that  had  opened  his  eyes  to  many 
things,  but  principally  to  the  beauty  that  was  now  every- 
thing to  him,  and  to  the — insignificance  of  death. 

He  knew  the  Caucasus  well  where  I  was  going.     I 

66 


Initiation  67 

think  that  was  why  he  was  interested  in  me  and  my 
journey.  "Up  there,"  he  said,  "you'll  feel  things — and 
maybe  find  out  things  you  never  knew  before." 

"What  kind  of  things?"  I  asked. 

"Why,  for  one,"  he  replied  with  emotion  and  enthusi- 
asm in  his  voice,  "that  Hving  and  dying  ain't  either  of 
them  of  much  account.  That  if  you  know  Beauty,  I 
mean,  and  Beauty  is  in  your  life,  you  live  on  in  it  and 
with  it  for  others — even  when  you're  dead." 

The  conversation  that  followed  is  too  long  to  give 
here,  but  it  led  to  his  telling  me  the  experience  in  his  own 
life  that  had  opened  his  eyes  to  the  truth  of  what  he  said. 
"Beauty  is  imperishable,"  he  declared,  "and  if  you  live 
with  it,  why,  you're  imperishable  too !" 

The  story,  as  he  told  it  verbally  in  his  curious  language, 
remains  vividly  in  my  memory.  But  he  had  written  it 
down,  too,  he  said.  And  he  gave  me  the  written  account, 
with  the  remark  that  I  was  free  to  hand  it  on  to  others 
if  I  "felt  that  way."  He  called  it  "Initiation."  It  runs 
as  follows. 


In  my  own  family  this  happened,  for  Arthur  was  my 
nephew.  And  a  remote  Alpine  valley  was  the  place.  It 
didn't  seem  to  me  in  the  least  suitable  for  such  occur- 
rences, except  that  it  was  Catholic,  and  the  "Church,"  I 
understand — at  least,  scholars  who  ought  to  know  have 
told  me  so — has  subtle  Pagan  origins  incorporated  unwit- 
tingly in  its  observations  of  certain  Saints'  Days,  as  well 
as  in  certain  ceremonials.  All  this  kind  of  thing  is  Dutch 
to  me,  a  form  of  poetry  or  superstition,  for  I  am  inter- 
ested chiefly  in  the  buying  and  selling  of  exchange,  with 
an  office  in  New  York  City,  just  off  Wall  Street,  and  only 
come  to  Europe  now  occasionally  for  a  holiday.  I  like 
to  see  the  dear  old  musty  cities,  and  go  to  the  Opera,  and 
take  a  motor  run  through  Shakespeare's  country  or  round 
the  Lakes,  get  in  touch  again  with  London  and  Paris  at 


68  Day  and  Night  Stories  ^ 

the  Ritz  Hotels — and  then  back  again  to  the  greatest  city 
on  earth,  where  for  years  now  I've  been  making  a  good 
thing  out  of  it.  Repton  and  Cambridge,  long  since  for- 
gotten, had  their  uses.  They  were  all  right  enough  at  the 
time.  But  I'm  now  "on  the  make,"  with  a  good  fat  part- 
nership, and  have  left  all  that  truck  behind  me. 

My  half-brother,  however — he  was  my  senior  and  got 
the  cream  of  the  family  wholesale  chemical  works — has 
stuck  to  the  trade  in  the  Old  Country,  and  is  making 
probably  as  much  as  I  am.  He  approved  my  taking  the 
chance  that  offered,  and  is  only  sore  now  because  his  son, 
Arthur,  is  on  the  stupid  side.  He  agreed  that  finance 
suited  my  temperament  far  better  than  drugs  and  chem- 
icals, though  he  warned  me  that  all  American  finance 
was  speculative  and  therefore  dangerous.  "Arthur  is 
getting  on,"  he  said  in  his  last  letter,  "and  will  some  day 
take  the  director's  place  you  would  be  in  now  had  you 
cared  to  stay.  But  he's  a  plodder,  rather."  That  meant, 
I  knew,  that  Arthur  was  a  fool.  Business,  at  any  rate, 
was  not  suited  to  his  temperament.  Five  years  ago,  when 
I  came  home  with  a  month's  holiday  to  be  used  in  working 
up  connections  in  English  banking  circles,  I  saw  the  boy. 
He  was  fifteen  years  of  age  at  the  time,  a  delicate  youth, 
with  an  artist's  dreams  in  his  big  blue  eyes,  if  my  mem- 
ory goes  for  anything,  but  with  a  tangle  of  yellow  hair 
and  features  of  classical  beauty  that  would  have  made 
half  the  young  girls  of  my  New  York  set  in  love  with 
him,  and  a  choice  of  heiresses  at  his  disposal  when  he 
wanted  them. 

I  have  a  clear  recollection  of  my  nephew  then.  He 
struck  me  as  having  grit  and  character,  but  as  being 
wrongly  placed.  He  had  his  grandfather's  tastes.  He 
ought  to  have  been,  like  him,  a  great  scholar,  a  poet,  an 
editor  of  marvellous  old  writings  in  new  editions.  I 
couldn't  get  much  out  of  the  boy,  except  that  he  "liked 
the  chemical  business  fairly,"  and  meant  to  please  his 
father  by  "knowing  it  thoroughly"  so  as  to  qualify  later 


Initiation  69 

for  his  directorship.  But  I  have  never  forgotten  the 
evening  when  I  caught  him  in  the  hall,  staring  up  at  his 
grandfather's  picture,  with  a  kind  of  light  about  his  face, 
and  the  big  blue  eyes  all  rapt  and  tender  (almost  as  if 
he  had  been  crying)  and  replying,  when  I  asked  him  what 
was  up:  "That  was  worth  living  for.  He  brought 
Beauty  back  into  the  world !" 

"Yes,"  I  said,  ''I  guess  that's  right  enough.  He  did. 
But  there  was  no  money  in  it  to  speak  of." 

The  boy  looked  at  me  and  smiled.  He  twigged  some- 
how or  other  that  deep  down  in  me,  somewhere  below  the 
money-making  instinct,  a  poet,  but  a  dumb  poet,  lay  in 
hiding.  *'You  know  what  I  mean,"  he  said.  "It's  in 
you  too." 

The  picture  was  a  copy — my  father  had  it  made — of  the 
presentation  portrait  given  to  Baliol,  and  "the  grand- 
father" was  celebrated  in  his  day  for  the  translations  he 
made  of  Anacreon  and  Sappho,  of  Homer,  too,  if  I 
remember  rightly,  as  well  as  for  a  number  of  classical 
studies  and  essays  that  he  wrote.  A  lot  of  stuff  like  that 
he  did,  and  made  a  name  at  it  too.  His  Lives  of  the 
Gods  went  into  six  editions.  They  said — the  big  critics 
of  his  day — that  he  was  "a  poet  who  wrote  no  poetry,  yet 
lived  it  passionately  in  the  spirit  of  old-world,  classical 
Beauty,"  and  I  know  he  was  a  wonderful  fellow  in  his 
way  and  made  the  dons  and  schoolmasters  all  sit  up. 
We're  proud  of  him  all  right.  After  twenty-five  years 
of  successful  "exchange"  in  New  York  City,  I  confess 
I  am  unable  to  appreciate  all  that,  feeling  more  in  touch 
with  the  commercial  and  financial  spirit  of  the  age,  prog- 
ress, development  and  the  rest.  But,  still,  I'm  not 
ashamed  of  the  classical  old  boy,  who  seems  to  have  been 
a  good  deal  of  a  Pagan,  judging  by  the  records  we  have 
kept.  However,  Arthur  peering  up  at  that  picture  in  the 
dusk,  his  eyes  half  moist  with  emotion,  and  his  voice 
gone  positively  shaky,  is  a  thing  I  never  have  forgotten. 
He    stimulated    my    curiosity    uncommonly.     It    stirred 


70  Day  and  Night  Stories 

something  deep  down  in  me  that  I  hardly  cared  to 
acknowledge  on  Wall  Street — something  burning. 

And  the  next  time  I  saw  him  was  in  the  summer  of 
1910,  when  I  came  to  Europe  for  a  two  months'  look 
around — my  wife  at  Newix)rt  with  the  children — and 
hearing  that  he  was  in  Switzerland,  learning  a  bit  of 
French  to  help  him  in  the  business,  I  made  a  point  of 
dropping  in  upon  him  just  to  see  how  he  was  shaping 
generally  and  what  new  kinks  his  mind  had  taken  on. 
There  was  something  in  Arthur  I  never  could  quite  for- 
get. Whenever  his  face  came  into  my  mind  I  began  to 
think.  A  kind  of  longing  came  over  me — a  desire  for 
Beauty,  I  guess,  it  was.     It  made  me  dream. 

I  found  him  at  an  English  tutor's — a  lively  old  dog, 
with  a  fondness  for  the  cheap  native  wines,  and  a  finan- 
cial interest  in  the  tourist  development  of  the  village. 
The  boys  learnt  French  in  the  mornings,  possibly,  but  for 
the  rest  of  the  day  were  free  to  amuse  themselves  exactly 
as  they  pleased  and  without  a  trace  of  supervision — pro- 
vided the  parents  footed  the  bills  without  demur. 

This  suited  everybody  all  round;  and  as  long  as  the 
boys  came  home  with  an  accent  and  a  vocabulary,  all  was 
well.  For  myself,  having  learned  in  New  York  to  attend 
strictly  to  my  own  business — exchange  between  different 
countries  with  a  profit — I  did  not  deem  it  necessary  to 
exchange  letters  and  opinions  with  my  brother — with  no 
chance  of  profit  anywhere.  But  I  got  to  know  Arthur, 
and  had  a  queer  experience  of  my  own  into  the  bargain. 
Oh,  there  was  profit  in  it  for  me.  I'm  drawing  big  divi- 
dends to  this  day  on  the  investment. 

I  put  up  at  the  best  hotel  in  the  village,  a  one-horse 
show,  differing  from  the  other  inns  only  in  the  prices 
charged  for  a  lot  of  cheap  decoration  in  the  dining-room, 
and  went  up  to  surprise  my  nephew  with  a  call  the  first 
thing  after  dinner.  The  tutor's  house  stood  some  way 
back  from  the  narrow  street,  among  fields  where  there 
were  more  flowers  than  grass,  and  backed  by  a  forest  of 


Initiation  71 

fine  old  timber  that  stretched  up  several  thousand  feet  to 
the  snow.  The  snow  at  least  was  visible,  peeping  out 
far  overhead  just  where  the  dark  line  of  forest  stopped ; 
but  in  reality,  I  suppose,  that  was  an  effect  of  fore- 
shortening, and  whole  valleys  and  pastures  intervened 
between  the  trees  and  the  snow-fields.  The  sunset,  long 
since  out  of  the  valley,  still  shone  on  those  white  ridges, 
where  the  peaks  stuck  up  like  the  teeth  of  a  gigantic 
saw.  I  guess  it  meant  five  or  six  hours'  good  climbing 
to  get  up  to  them — and  nothing  to  do  when  you  got  there. 
Switzerland,  anyway,  seemed  a  poor  country,  with  its 
little  bit  of  watch-making,  sour  wines,  and  every  square 
yard  hanging  upstairs  at  an  angle  of  60  degrees  used  for 
hay.  Picture  postcards,  chocolate  and  cheap  tourists 
kept  it  going  apparently,  but  I  dare  say  it  was  all  right 
enough  to  learn  French  in — and  cheap  as  Hoboken  to 
live  in! 

Arthur  was  out;  I  just  left  a  card  and  wrote  on  it  that 
I  would  be  very  pleased  if  he  cared  to  step  down  to  take 
luncheon  with  me  at  my  hotel  next  day.  Having  nothing 
better  to  do,  I  strolled  homewards  by  way  of  the  forest. 

Now  what  came  over  me  in  that  bit  of  dark  pine  forest 
is  more  than  I  can  quite  explain,  but  I  think  it  must  have 
been  due  to  the  height — the  village  was  4,000  feet  above 
sea-level — and  the  effect  of  the  rarefied  air  upon  my  cir- 
culation. The  nearest  thing  to  it  in  my  experience  is 
rye  whisky,  the  queer  touch  of  wildness,  of  self-confi- 
dence, a  kind  of  whooping  rapture  and  the  reckless  sensa- 
tion of  being  a  tin  god  of  sorts  that  comes  from  a  lot  of 
alcohol — a  memory,  please  understand,  of  years  before, 
when  I  thought  it  a  grand  thing  to  own  the  earth  and  paint 
the  old  town  red.  I  seemed  to  walk  on  air,  and  there  was 
a  smell  about  those  trees  that  made  me  suddenly — well, 
that  took  my  mind  clean  out  of  its  accustomed  rut.  It 
was  just  too  lovely  and  wonderful  for  me  to  describe 
it.  I  had  got  well  into  the  forest  and  lost  my  way  a  bit. 
The  smell  of  an  old-world  garden  wasn't  in  it.     It  smelt 


72  Day  and  Night  Stories 

to  me  as  if  some  one  had  just  that  minute  turned  out  the 
earth  all  fresh  and  new.  There  was  moss  and  tannin,  a 
hint  of  burning,  something  between  smoke  and  incense, 
say,  and  a  fine  clean  odour  of  pitch-pine  bark  when  the 
sun  gets  on  it  after  rain — and  a  flavour  of  the  sea  thrown 
in  for  luck.  That  was  the  first  I  noticed,  for  I  had  never 
smelt  anything  half  so  good  since  my  camping  days  on  the 
coast  of  Maine.  And  I  stood  still  to  enjoy  it.  I  threw 
away  my  cigar  for  fear  of  mixing  things  and  spoiling  it. 
''If  that  could  be  bottled,"  I  said  to  myself,  "it'd  sell  for 
two  dollars  a  pint  in  every  city  in  the  Union !" 

And  it  was  just  then,  while  standing  and  breathing  it 
in,  that  I  got  the  queer  feeling  of  some  one  watching  me. 
I  kept  quite  still.  Some  one  was  moving  near  me. 
The  sweat  went  trickling  down  my  back.  A  kind  of 
childhood  thrill  got  hold  of  me. 

It  was  very  dark.  I  was  not  afraid  exactly,  but  I  was 
a  stranger  in  these  parts  and  knew  nothing  about  the 
habits  of  the  mountain  peasants.  There  might  be  tough 
customers  lurking  around  after  dark  on  the  chance  of 
striking  some  guy  of  a  tourist  with  money  in  his  pockets. 
Yet,  somehow,  that  wasn't  the  kind  of  feehng  that  came 
to  me  at  all,  for,  though  I  had  a  pocket  Browning  at  my 
hip,  the  notion  of  getting  at  it  did  not  even  occur  to  me. 
The  sensation  was  new — a  kind  of  lifting,  exciting  sensa- 
tion that  made  my  heart  swell  out  with  exhilaration. 
There  was  happiness  in  it.  A  cloud  that  weighed  seemed 
to  roll  off  my  mind,  same  as  that  light-hearted  mood  when 
the  office  door  is  locked  and  I'm  off  on  a  two  months' 
holiday — with  gaiety  and  irresponsibihty  at  the  back  of 
it.     It  was  invigorating.     I  felt  youth  sweep  over  me. 

I  stood  there,  wondering  what  on  earth  was  coming 
on  me,  and  half  expecting  that  any  moment  some  one 
would  come  out  of  the  darkness  and  show  himself;  and 
as  I  held  my  breath  and  made  no  movement  at  all  the 
queer  sensation  grew  stronger.  I  believe  I  even  resisted 
a  temptation  to  kick  up  my  heels  and  dance,  to  let  out  a 


Initiation  73 

flying  shout  as  a  man  with  liquor  in  him  does.  Instead  of 
this,  however,  I  just  kept  dead  still.  The  wood  was 
black  as  ink  all  round  me,  too  black  to  see  the  tree-trunks 
separately,  except  far  below  where  the  village  lights 
came  up  twinkling  between  them,  and  the  only  way  I  kept 
the  path  was  by  the  soft  feel  of  the  pine-needles  that  were 
thicker  than  a  Brussels  carpet.  But  nothing  happened, 
and  no  one  stirred.  The  idea  that  I  was  being  watched 
remained,  only  there  was  no  sound  anywhere  except  the 
roar  of  falling  water  that  filled  the  entire  valley.  Yet 
some  one  was  very  close  to  me  in  the  darkness. 

I  can't  say  how  long  I  might  have  stood  there,  but  I 
guess  it  was  the  best  part  of  ten  minutes,  and  I  remember 
it  struck  me  that  I  had  rui/  up  against  a  pocket  of  extra- 
rarefied  air  that  had  a  loft  of  oxygen  in  it — oxygen  or 
something  similar — and  that  was  the  cause  of  my  elation. 
The  idea  was  nonsense,  I  have  no  doubt;  but  for  the 
moment  it  half  explained  the  thing  to  me.  I  realised  it 
was  all  natural  enough,  at  any  rate — and  so  mo_ved  on. 
It  took  a  longish  time  to  reach  the  edge  of  the  wood,  and 
a  footpath  led  me — oh,  it  was  quite  a  walk,  I  tell  you — 
into  the  village  street  again.  I  was  both  glad  and  sorry 
to  get  there.  I  kept  myself  busy  thinking  the  whole  thing 
over  again.  What  caught  me  all  of  a  heap  was  that  mil- 
lion-dollar sense  of  beauty,  youth,  and  happiness.  Never 
in  my  born  days  had  I  felt  anything  to  touch  it.  And  it 
hadn't  cost  a  cent ! 

Well,  I  was  sitting  there  enjoying  my  smoke  and  trying 
to  puzzle  it  all  out,  and  the  hall  was  pretty  full  of  people 
smoking  and  talking  and  reading  papers,  and  so  forth, 
when  all  of  a  sudden  I  looked  up  and  caught  my  breath 
with  such  a  jerk  that  I  actually  bit  my  tongue.  There 
was  grandfather  in  front  of  my  chair !  I  looked  into  his 
eyes.  I  saw  him  as  clear  and  solid  as  the  porter  standing 
behind  his  desk  across  the  lounge,  and  it  gave  me  a  touch 
of  cold  all  down  the  back  that  I  needn't  forget  unless  I 
want  to.     He  was  looking  into  my  face,  and  he  had  a  cap 


74  Day  and  Night  Stories 

in  his  hand,  and  he  was  speaking  to  me.  It  was  my 
grandfather's  picture  come  to  Hfe,  only  much  thinner  and 
younger  and  a  kind  of  Hght  in  his  eyes  like  fire. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  but  you  are — Uncle  Jim,  aren't 
your 

And  then,  with  another  jump  of  my  nerves,  I  under- 
stood. 

*'You,  Arthur !  Well,  I'm  jiggered.  So  it  is.  Take  a 
chair,  boy.  I'm  right  glad  you  found  me.  Shake !  Sit 
down."  And  I  shook  his  hand  and  pushed  a  chair  up 
for  him.  I  was  never  so  surprised  in  my  life.  The  last 
time  I  set  eyes  on  him  he  was  a  boy.  Now  he  was  a 
young  man,  and  the  very  image  of  his  ancestor. 

He  sat  down,  fingering  his  cap.  He  wouldn't  have  a 
drink  and  he  wouldn't  smoke.  "All  right,"  I  said,  ''let's 
talk  then.  I've  lots  to  tell  you  and  I've  lots  to  hear. 
How  are  you,  boy  ?" 

He  didn't  answer  at  first.  He  eyed  me  up  and  down. 
He  hesitated.  He  was  as  handsome  as  a  young  Greek 
god. 

'T  say.  Uncle  Jim,"  he  began  presently,  *'it  was  you — 
just  now — in  the  wood — wasn't  it?"  It  made  me  start, 
that  question  put  so  quietly. 

"I  have  just  come  through  that  wood  up  there,"  I 
answered,  pointing  in  the  direction  as  well  as  I  could 
remember,  "if  that's  what  you  mean.  But  why?  You 
weren't  there,  were  you?'*  It  gave  me  a  queer  sort  of 
feeling  to  hear  him  say  it.  What  in  the  name  of  heaven 
did  he  mean  ? 

He  sat  back  in  his  chair  with  a  sigh  of  relief. 

"Oh,  that's  all  right  then,"  he  said,  "if  i^.was  you. 
Did  you  see,"  he  asked  suddenly;  "did  you^  see — any- 
thing?" 

"Not  a  thing,"  I  told  him  honestly.  "It  was  far  too 
dark."  I  laughed.  I  fancied  I  twigged  his  meaning. 
But  I  was  not  the  sort  of  uncle  to  come  prying  on  him. 


Initiation  75 

Life  must  be  dull  enough,  I  remembered,  in  this  mountain 
village. 

But  he  didn't  understand  my  laugh.  He  didn't  mean 
what  I  meant. 

And  there  came  a  pause  between  us.  I  discovered  that 
we  were  talking  different  lingoes.  I  leaned  over  towards 
him. 

"Look  here,  Arthur,"  I  said  in  a  lower  voice,  "what 
is  it,  and  what  do  you  mean?  I'm  all  right,  you  know, 
and  you  needn't  be  afraid  of  telling  me.  What  d'you 
mean  by — did  I  see  anything?" 

We  looked  each  other  squarely  in  the  eye.  He  saw 
he  could  trust  me,  and  I  saw — well,  a  whole  lot  of  things, 
perhaps,  but  I  felt  chiefly  that  he  liked  me  and  would  tell 
me  things  later,  all  in  his  own  good  time.  I  liked  him  all 
the  better  for  that  too. 

"I  only  meant,"  he  answered  slowly,  "whether  you 
really  saw — anything  ?" 

"No,"  I  said  straight,  "I  didn't  see  a  thing,  but,  by  the 
gods,  I  felt  something." 

He  started.  I  started  too.  An  astonishing  big  look 
came  swimming  over  his  fair,  handsome  face.  His  eyes 
seemed  all  lit  up.  He  looked  as  if  he'd  just  made  a  cool 
million  in  wheat  or  cotton. 

"I  knew — you  were  that  sort,"  he  whispered.  "Though 
I  hardly  remembered  what  you  looked  like." 

"Then  what  on  earth  was  it  ?"  I  asked. 

His  reply  staggered  me  a  bit.  "It  was  just  that,"  he 
said— "the  Earth!" 

And  then,  just  when  things  were  getting  interesting 
and  promising  a  dividend,  he  shut  up  like  a  clam.  He 
wouldn't  say  another  word.  He  asked  after  my  family 
and  business,  my  health,  what  kind  of  crossing  I'd  had, 
and  all  the  rest  of  the  common  stock.  It  fairly  bowled 
me  over.     And  I  couldn't  change  him  either. 

I  suppose  in  America  we  get  pretty  free  and  easy,  and 
don't  quite  trnderstand  reserve.     But  this  young  man  of 


^6  Day  and  Night  Stories 

half  my  age  kept  me  in  my  place  as  easily  as  I  might 
have  kept  a  nervous  customer  quiet  in  my  own  office.  He 
just  refused  to  take  me  on.  He  was  polite  and  cool  and 
distant  as  you  please,  and  when  I  got  pressing  sometimes 
he  simply  pretended  he  didn't  understand.  I  could  no 
more  get  him  back  again  to  the  subject  of  the  wood  than 
a  customer  could  have  gotten  me  to  tell  him  about  the 
prospects  of  exchange  being  cheap  or  dear — when  I  didn't 
know  myself  but  wouldn't  let  him  see  I  didn't  know.  He 
was  charming,  he  was  delightful,  enthusiastic  and  even 
affectionate ;  downright  glad  to  see  me,  too,  and  to  chin 
with  me — but  I  couldn't  draw  him  worth  a  cent.  And  in 
the  end  I  gave  up  trying. 

And  the  moment  I  gave  up  trying  he  let  down  a  little 
— but  only  a  very  little. 

"You'll  stay  here  some  time,  Uncle  Jim,  won't  you  ?" 

^'That's  my  idea,"  I  said,  '4f  I  can  see  you,  and  you  can 
show  me  round  some." 

He  laughed  with  pleasure.  "Oh,  rather.  I've  got  lots 
of  time.  After  three  in  the  afternoon  I'm  free  till — any 
time  you  like.     There's  a  lot  to  see,"  he  added. 

"Come  along  to-morrow  then,"  I  said.  "If  you  can't 
take  lunch,  perhaps  you  can  come  just  afterwards.  You'll 
find  me  waiting  for  you — right  here." 

"I'll  come  at  three,"  he  replied,  and  we  said  good-night. 


He  turned  up  sharp  at  three,  and  I  liked  his  punctuality. 
I  saw  him  come  swinging  down  the  dusty  road  ;  tall,  deep- 
chested,  his  broad  shoulders  a  trifle  high,  and  his  head  set 
proudly.  He  looked  like  a  young  chap  in  training,  a 
thoroughbred,  every  inch  of  him.  At  the  same  time 
there  was  a  touch  of  something  a  little  too  refined  and 
delicate  for  a  man,  I  thought.  That  was  the  poetic, 
scholarly  vein  in  him,  I  guess — grandfather  cropping  out. 
This  time   he  wore  no  cap.     His  thick  light  hair,  not 


Initiation  77 

brushed  back  like  the  London  shop-boys,  but  parted  on 
the  side,  yet  untidy  for  all  that,  suited  him  exactly  and 
gave  him  a  touch  of  wildness. 

"Well,"  he  asked,  "what  would  you  like  to  do,  Uncle 
Jim?  I'm  at  your  service,  and  I've  got  the  whole  after- 
noon till  supper  at  seven-thirty."  I  told  him  I'd  like  to 
go  through  that  wood.  "All  right,"  he  said,  "come  along. 
I'll  show  you."  He  gave  me  one  quick  glance,  but  said  no 
more.  "I'd  like  to  see  if  I  feel  anything  this  time,"  I 
explained.  "We'll  locate  the  very  spot,  maybe."  He 
nodded. 

"You  know  where  I  mean,  don't  you?"  I  asked,  "be- 
cause you  saw  me  there?"  He  just  said  yes,  and  then 
we  started. 

It  was  hot,  and  air  was  scarce.  I  remember  that  we 
went  uphill,  and  that  I  realised  there  was  considerable 
difference  in  our  ages.  We  crossed  some  fields  first — 
smothered  in  flowers  so  thick  that  I  wondered  how  much 
grass  the  cows  got  out  of  it ! — and  then  came  to  a  sprin- 
kling of  fine  young  larches  that  looked  as  vSoft  as  velvet. 
There  was  no  path,  just  a  wild  mountain  side.  I  had  very 
little  breath  on  the  steep  zigzags,  but  Arthur  talked  easily 
— and  talked  mighty  well,  too :  the  light  and  shade,  the 
colouring,  and  the  effect  of  all  this  wilderness  of  lonely 
beauty  on  the  mind.  He  kept  all  this  suppressed  at  home 
in  business.  It  was  safety  valves.  I  twigged  that.  It 
was  the  artist  in  him  talking.  He  seemed  to  think  there 
was  nothing  in  the  world  but  Beauty — with  a  big  B  all 
the  time.  And  the  odd  thing  was  he  took  for  granted  that 
I  felt  the  same.  It  was  cute  of  him  to  flatter  me  that 
way.  "Daulis  and  the  lone  Cephissian  vale,"  I  heard ;  and 
a  few  moments  later — with  a  sort  of  reverence  in  his 
voice  like  worship — he  called  out  a  great  singing  name : 
''Astarter 

"Day  is  her  face,  and  midnight  is  her  hair. 
And  morning  hours  are  but  the  golden  stair 
By  which  she  climbs  to  Night." 


78  Day  and  Night  Stories 

It  was  here  first  that  a  queer  change  began  to  grow 
upon  me  too. 

"Steady  on,  boy!  I've  forgotten  all  my  classics  ages 
ago,"  I  cried. 

He  turned  and  gazed  down  on  me,  his  big  eyes  glow- 
ing, and  not  a  sign  of  perspiration  on  his  skin. 

"That's  nothing,"  he  exclaimed  in  his  musical,  deep 
voice.  "You  know  it,  or  you'd  never  have  felt  things  in 
this  wood  last  night;  and  you  wouldn't  have  wanted  to 
come  out  with  me  now!" 

"How?"  I  gasped.     "How's  that?" 

"You've  come,"  he  continued  quietly,  "to  the  only  val- 
ley in  this  artificial  country  that  has  atmosphere.  This 
valley  is  alive — especially  this  end  of  it.  There's  super- 
stition here,  thank  God!  Even  the  peasants  know 
things." 

I  stared  at  him.  "See  here,  Arthur,"  I  objected.  "I'm 
not  a  Cath.  And  I  don't  know  a  thing — at  least  it's  all 
dead  in  me  and  forgotten — about  poetry  or  classics  or 
your  gods  and  pan — pantheism — in  spite  of  grand- 
father  " 

His  face  turned  like  a  dream  face. 

"Hush!"  he  said  quickly.  "Don't  mention  him. 
There's  a  bit  of  him  in  you  as  well  as  in  me,  and  it  was 
here,  you  know,  he  wrote " 

I  didn't  hear  the  rest  of  what  he  said.  A  creep  came 
over  me.  I  remembered  that  this  ancestor  of  ours  lived 
for  years  in  the  isolation  of  some  Swiss  forest  where  he 
claimed — he  used  that  setting  for  his  writing — he  had 
found  the  exiled  gods,  their  ghosts,  their  beauty,  their 
eternal  essences — or  something  astonishing  of  that  sort. 
I  had  clean  forgotten  it  till  this  moment.  It  all  rushed 
back  upon  me,  a  memory  of  my  boyhood. 

And,  as  I  say,  a  creep  came  over  me — something  as 
near  to  awe  as  ever  could  be.  The  sunshine  on  that  field 
of  yellow  daisies  and  blue  forget-me-nots  turned  pale. 
That  warm  valley  wind  had  a  touch  of  snow  in  it.     And, 


Initiation  79 

ashamed  and  frightened  of  my  baby  mood,  I  looked  at 
Arthur,  meaning  to  choke  him  off  with  all  this  rubbish — 
and  then  saw  something  in  his  eyes  that  scared  me  stiff. 

I  admit  it.  What's  the  use  ?  There  was  an  expression 
on  his  fine  big  face  that  made  my  blood  go  curdled,.  I 
got  cold  feet  right  there.  It  mastered  me.  In  him,  be- 
hind him,  near  him — blest  if  I  know  which,  through  him 
probably — came  an  enormous  thing  that  turned  me  insig- 
nificant.    It  downed  me  utterly. 

It  was  over  in  a  second,  the  flash  of  a  wing.  I  recov- 
ered instantly.  No  mere  boy  should  come  these  muzzy 
tricks  on  me,  scholar  or  no  scholar.  For  the  change  in 
me  was  on  the  increase,  and  I  shrank. 

"See  here,  Arthur,"  I  said  plainly  once  again,  "I  don't 
know  what  your  game  is,  but — there's  something  queer 
up  here  I  don't  quite  get  at.  I'm  only  a  business  man, 
with  classics  and  poetry  all  gone  dry  in  me  twenty  years 
ago  and  more " 

He  looked  at  me  so  strangely  that  I  stopped,  confused. 

"But,  Uncle  Jim,"  he  said  as  quietly  as  though  we 
talked  tobacco  brands,  "you  needn't  be  alarmed.  It's 
natural  you  should  feel  the  place.  You  and  I  belong  to 
it.  We've  both  got  him  in  us.  You're  just  as  proud  of 
him  as  I  am,  only  in  a  different  way."  And  then  he 
added,  with  a  touch  of  disappointment :  "I  thought  you'd 
like  it.  You  weren't  afraid  last  night.  You  felt  the 
beauty  then" 

Flattery  is  a  darned  subtle  thing  at  any  time.  To  see 
him  standing  over  me  in  that  superior  way  and  talking 
down  at  my  poor  business  mind — well,  it  just  came  over 
me  that  I  was  laying  my  cards  on  the  table  a  bit  too  early. 
After  so  many  years  of  city  life ! 

Anyway,  I  pulled  myself  together.  "I  was  only  kid- 
ding you,  boy,"  I  laughed.  "I  feel  this  beauty  just  as 
much  as  you  do.  Only,  I  guess,  you're  more  accustome^ 
to  it  than  I  am.     Come  on  now,"  I  added  with  energy. 


8o  Day  and  Night  Stories 

getting  upon  my  feet,  "let's  push  on  and  see  the  wood. 
I  want  to  find  that  place  again." 

He  pulled  me  with  a  hand  of  iron,  laughing  as  he  did 
so.  Gee !  I  wished  I  had  his  teeth,  as  well  as  the  mus- 
cles in  his  arm.  Yet  I  felt  younger,  somehow,  too — youth 
flowed  more  and  more  into  my  veins.  I  had  forgotten 
how  sweet  the  winds  and  woods  and  flowers  could  be. 
Something  melted  in  me.  For  it  was  Spring,  and  the 
whole  world  was  singing  like  a  dream.  Beauty  was 
creeping  over  me.  I  don^t  know.  I  began  to  feel  all 
big  and  tender  and  open  to  a  thousand  wonderful  sensa- 
tions. The  thought  of  streets  and  houses  seemed  like 
death.  .    .    . 

We  went  on  again,  not  talking  much ;  my  breath  got 
shorter  and  shorter,  and  he  kept  looking  about  him  as 
though  he  expected  something.  But  we  passed  no  living 
soul,  not  even  a  peasant ;  there  were  no  chalets,  no  cattle, 
no  cattle  shelters  even.  And  then  I  realised  that  the  val- 
ley lay  at  our  feet  in  haze  and  that  we  had  been  climbing 
at  least  a  couple  of  hours.  "Why,  last  night  I  got  home 
in  twenty  minutes  at  the  outside,"  I  said.  He  shook  his 
head,  smiling.  "It  seemed  like  that,"  he  replied,  "but  you 
really  took  much  longer.  It  was  long  after  ten  when  I 
found  you  in  the  hall."  I  reflected  a  moment.  "Now  I 
come  to  think  of  it,  you're  right,  Arthur.  Seems  curi- 
ous, though,  somehow."  He  looked  closely  at  me.  "I 
followed  you  all  the  way,"  he  said. 

"You  followed  me !" 

"And  you  went  at  a  good  pace  too.  It  was  your  feel- 
ings that  made  it  seem  so  short — you  were  singing  to 
yourself  and  happy  as  a  dancing  faun.  We  kept  close 
behind  you  for  a  long  way." 

I  think  it  was  "we"  he  said,  but  for  some  reason  or 
other  I  didn't  care  to  ask. 

"Maybe,"  I  answered  shortly,  trying  uncomfortably  to 
recall  what  particular  capers  I  had  cut.  "I  guess  that's 
right."     And  then  I  added  something  about  the  loneli- 


Initiation  8i 

ness,  and  how  deserted  all  this  slope  of  mountain  was. 
And  he  explained  that  the  peasants  were  afraid  of  it  and 
called  it  No  Man's  Land.  From  one  year's  end  to  an- 
other no  human  foot  went  up  or  down  it;  the  hay  was 
never  cut;  no  cattle  grazed  along  the  splendid  pastures; 
no  chalet  had  even  been  built  within  a  mile  of  the  wood 
we  slowly  made  for.  "They're  superstitious,"  he  told 
me.  ''It  was  just  the  same  a  hundred  years  ago  when  he 
discovered  it — there  was  a  little  natural  cave  on  the  edge 
of  the  forest  where  he  used  to  sleep  sometimes — I'll  show 
it  to  you  presently — but  for  generations  this  entire  moun- 
tain-side has  been  undisturbed.  You'll  never  meet  a  liv- 
ing soul  in  any  part  of  it."  He  stopped  and  pointed  above 
us  to  where  the  pine  wood  hung  in  mid-air,  like  a  dim 
blue  carpet.     "It's  just  the  place  for  Them,  you  see." 

And  a  thrill  of  power  went  smashing  through  me.  I 
can't  describe  it.  It  drenched  me  like  a  waterfall.  I 
thought  of  Greece — Mount  Ida  and  a  thousand  songs! 
Something  in  me — it  was  like  the  click  of  a  shutter — an- 
nounced that  the  "change"  was  suddenly  complete.  I  was 
another  man;  or  rather  a  deeper  part  of  me  took  com- 
mand.    My  very  language  showed  it. 

The  calm  of  halcyon  weather  lay  over  all.  Overhead 
the  peaks  rose  clear  as  crystal;  below  us  the  village  lay 
in  a  bluish  smudge  of  smoke  and  haze,  as  though  a  great 
finger  had  rubbed  them  softly  into  the  earth.  Absolute 
loneliness  fell  upon  me  Hke  a  clap.  From  the  world  of 
human  beings  we  seemed  quite  shut  off.  And  there 
began  to  steal  over  me  again  the  strange  elation  of  the 
night  before.  .  .  .  We  found  ourselves  almost  at  once 
against  the  edge  of  the  wood. 

It  rose  in  front  of  us,  a  big  wall  of  splendid  trees, 
motionless  as  if  cut  out  of  dark  green  metal,  the  branches 
hanging  stiff,  and  the  crowd  of  trunks  lost  in  the  blue 
dimness  underneath.  I  shaded  my  eyes  with  one  hand, 
trying  to  peer  into  the  solemn  gloom.     The  contrast  be- 


82  Day  and  Night  Stories 

tween  the  brilliant  sunshine  on  the  pastures  and  this  re- 
gion of  heavy  shadows  blurred  my  sight. 

"It's  like  the  entrance  to  another  world,"  I  whispered. 

"It  is,"  said  Arthur,  watching  me.  "We  will  go  in. 
You  shall  pluck  asphodel.   ..." 

And,  before  I  knew  it,  he  had  me  by  the  hand.  We 
were  advancing.  We  left  the  light  behind  us.  The  cool 
air  dropped  upon  me  like  a  sheet.  There  was  a  temple 
silence.  The  sun  ran  down  behind  the  sky,  leaving  a 
marvellous  blue  radiance  everywhere.  Nothing  stirred. 
But  through  the  stillness  there  rose  power,  power  that 
has  no  name,  power  that  hides  at  the  foundations  some- 
where— foundations  that  are  changeless,  invisible,  ever- 
lasting. What  do  I  mean  ?  My  mind  grew  to  the  dimen- 
sions of  a  planet.  We  were  among  the  roots  of  life — 
whence  issues  that  one  thing  in  infinite  guise  that  seeks 
so  many  temporary  names  from  the  protean  minds  of 
men. 

"You  shall  pluck  asphodel  in  the  meadows  this  side  of 
Erebus,"  Arthur  was  chanting.  "Hermes  himself,  the 
Psychopomp,  shall  lead,  and  Malahide  shall  welcome  us." 

Malahide  .    .    .  ! 

To  hear  him  use  that  name,  the  name  of  our  scholar- 
ancestor,  now  dead  and  buried  close  upon  a  century — the 
way  he  half  chanted  it — gave  me  the  goose-flesh.  I 
stopped  against  a  tree-stem,  thinking  of  escape.  No  words 
came  to  me  at  the  moment,  for  I  didn't  know  what  to 
say;  but,  on  turning  to  find  the  bright  green  slopes  just 
left  behind,  I  saw  only  a  crowd  of  trees  and  shadows 
hanging  thick  as  a  curtain — as  though  we  had  walked  a 
mile.  And  it  was  a  shock.  The  way  out  was  lost.  The 
trees  closed  up  behind  us  like  a  tide. 

"It's  all  right,"  said  Arthur;  "just  keep  an  open  mind 
and  a  heart  alive  with  love.  It  has  a  shattering  effect  at 
first,  but  that  will  pass."  He  saw  I  was  afraid,  for  I 
shrank  visibly  enough.  He  stood  beside  me  in  his  grey 
flannel  suit,  with  his  brilliant  eyes  and  his  great  shock 


Initiation  83 

of  hair,  looking  more  like  a  column  of  light  than  a  human 
being.  ''It's  all  quite  right  and  natural,"  he  repeated; 
*Ve  have  passed  the  gateway,  and  Hecate,  who  presides 
over  gateways,  will  let  us  out  again.  Do  not  make  dis- 
cord by  feeling  fear.  This  is  a  pine  wood,  and  pines  are 
the  oldest,  simplest  trees ;  they  are  true  primitives.  They 
are  an  open  channel ;  and  in  a  pine  wood  where  no  human 
life  has  ever  been  you  shall  often  find  gateways  where 
Hecate  is  kind  to  such  as  us." 

He  took  my  hand — he  must  have  felt  mine  trembling, 
but  his  own  was  cool  and  strong  and  felt  Hke  silver — and 
led  me  forward  into  the  depths  of  a  wood  that  seemed  to 
me  quite  endless.  It  felt  endless,  that  is  to  say.  I  don't 
know  what  came  over  me.  Fear  slipped  away,  and  ela- 
tion took  its  place.  .  .  .  As  we  advanced  over  ground 
that  seemed  level,  or  slightly  undulating,  I  saw  bright 
pools  of  sunshine  here  and  there  upon  the  forest  floor. 
Great  shafts  of  light  dropped  in  slantingly  between  the 
trunks.  There  was  movement  everywhere,  though  I 
never  could  see  what  moved.  A  delicious,  scented  air 
stirred  through  the  lower  branches.  Running  water  sang 
not  very  far  away.  Figures  I  did  not  actually  see;  yet 
there  were  limbs  and  flowing  draperies  and  flying  hair 
from  time  to  time,  ever  just  beyond  the  pools  of  sunlight. 
.  .  .  Surprise  went  from  me  too.  I  was  on  air.  The 
atmosphere  of  dream  came  round  me,  but  a  dream  of 
something  just  hovering  outside  the  world  I  knew — a 
dream  wrought  in  gold  and  silver,  with  shining  eyes,  with 
graceful  beckoning  hands,  and  with  voices  that  rang  like 
bells  of  music.  .  .  .  And  the  pools  of  light  grew  larger, 
merging  one  into  another,  until  a  delicate  soft  light 
shone  equably  throughout  the  entire  forest.  Into  this 
zone  of  light  we  passed  together.  Then  something  fell 
abruptly  at  our  feet,  as  though  thrown  down  .  .  .  two 
marvellous,  shining  sprays  of  blossom  such  as  I  had  never 
seen  in  all  my  days  before ! 

''Asphodel !"  cried  my  companion,  stooping  to  pick  them 


84  Day  and  Night  Stories 

up  and  handing  one  to  me.  I  took  it  from  him  with  a 
delight  I  could  not  understand.  "Keep  it,"  he  murmured ; 
*'it  is  the  sign  that  we  are  welcome.  For  Malahide  has 
dropped  these  on  our  path." 

And  at  the  use  of  that  ancestral  name  it  seemed  that  a 
spirit  passed  before  my  face  and  the  hair  of  my  head 
stood  up.  There  was  a  sense  of  violent,  unhappy  con- 
trast. A  composite  picture  presented  itself,  then  rushed 
away.  What  was  it?  My  youth  in  England,  music  and 
poetry  at  Cambridge  and  my  passionate  love  of  Greek  that 
lasted  two  terms  at  most,  when  Malahide's  great  books 
formed  part  of  the  curriculum.  Over  against  this,  then, 
the  drag  and  smother  of  solid  worldly  business,  the  sor- 
did weight  of  modern  ugliness,  the  bitterness  of  an  ambi- 
tious, over-striving  life.  And  abruptly — beyond  both 
pictures — a  shining,  marvellous  Beauty  that  scattered 
stars  beneath  my  feet  and  scarved  the  universe  with  gold. 
All  this  flashed  before  me  with  the  utterance  of  that  old 
family  name.  An  alternative  sprang  up.  There  seemed 
some  radical,  elemental  choice  presented  to  me — to  what 
I  used  to  call  my  soul.  My  soul  could  take  or  leave  it 
as  it  pleased.   .    .    . 

I  looked  at  Arthur  moving  beside  me  like  a  shaft  of 
light.  What  had  come  over  me?  How  had  our  walk 
and  talk  and  mood,  our  quite  recent  everyday  and  ordi- 
nary view,  our  normal  relationship  with  the  things  of  the 
world — how  had  it  all  slipped  into  this  ?  So  insensibly,  so 
easily,  so  naturally! 

'Was  it  worth  while?" 

The  question — /  didn't  ask  it — jumped  up  in  me  of  its 
own  accord.  Was  *'what"  worth  while  ?  Why,  my  pres- 
ent life  of  commonplace  and  grubbing  toil,  of  course ;  my 
city  existence,  with  its  meagre,  unremunerative  ambitions. 
Ah,  it  was  this  new  Beauty  calling  me,  this  shining  dream 
that  lay  beyond  the  two  pictures  I  have  mentioned.  .  .  . 
I  did  not  argue  it,  even  to  myself.  But  I  understood. 
There  was  a  radical  change  in  me.     The  buried  poet,  too 


Initiation  85 

long  hidden,  rushed  into  the  air  Hke  some  great  singing 
bird. 

I  glanced  again  at  Arthur  moving  along  lightly  by  my 
side,  half  dancing  almost  in  his  brimming  happiness. 
''Wait  till  you  see  Them,"  I  heard  him  singing.  "Wait 
till  you  hear  the  call  of  Artemis  and  the  footsteps  of  her 
flying  nymphs.  Wait  till  Orion  thunders  overhead  and 
Selene,  crowned  with  the  crescent  moon,  drives  up  the 
zenith  in  her  white-horsed  chariot.  The  choice  will  be 
beyond  all  question  then   .    .    .  !" 

A  great  silent  bird,  with  soft  brown  plumage,  whirred 
across  our  path,  pausing  an  instant  as  though  to  peep, 
then  disappearing  with  a  muted  sound  into  an  eddy  of  the 
wind  it  made.  The  big  trees  hid  it.  It  was  an  owl.  The 
same  moment  I  heard  a  rush  of  liquid  song  come  pouring 
through  the  forest  with  a  gush  of  almost  human  notes, 
and  a  pair  of  glossy  wings  flashed  past  us,  swerving 
upwards  to  find  the  open  sky — blue-black,  pointed  wings. 

"His  favourites!"  exclaimed  my  companion  with  clear 
joy  in  his  voice,  "They  all  are  here !  Athene's  bird, 
Procne  and  Philomela  too !  The  owl — the  swallow — and 
the  nightingale !  Tereus  and  Itys  are  not  far  away." 
And  the  entire  forest,  as  he  said  it,  stirred  with  move- 
ment, as  though  that  great  bird's  quiet  wings  had  waked 
the  sea  of  ancient  shadows.  There  were  voices  too — 
ringing,  laughing  voices,  as  though  his  words  woke  echoes 
that  had  been  listening  for  it.  For  I  heard  sweet  singing 
in  the  distance.  The  names  he  had  used  perplexed  me. 
Yet  even  I,  stranger  as  I  was  to  such  refined  delights, 
could  not  mistake  the  passion  of  the  nightingale  and  the 
dart  of  the  eager  swallow.  That  wild  burst  of  music,  that 
curve  of  swift  escape,  were  unmistakable. 

And  I  struck  a  stalwart  tree-stem  with  my  open  hand, 
feeling  the  need  of  hearing,  touching,  sensing  it.  My  link 
with  known,  remembered  things  was  breaking.  I  craved 
the  satisfaction  of  the  commonplace.  I  got  that  satisfac- 
tion; but  I  got  something  more  as  well.     For  the  trunk 


86  Day  and  Night  Stories 

was  round  and  smooth  and  comely.  It  was  no  dead 
thing  I  struck.  Somehow  it  brushed  me  into  intercourse 
with  inanimate  Nature.  And  next  the  desire  came  to 
hear  my  voice — my  own  familiar,  high-pitched  voice  with 
the  twang  and  accent  the  New  World  climate  brings,  so- 
called  American : 

^'Exchange  Place,  Noo  York  City.  I'm  in  that  busi- 
ness, buying  and  selling  of  exchange  between  the  banks 
of  two  civilised  countries,  one  of  them  stoopid  and  old- 
fashioned,  the  other  leading  all  creation  .    .    .  !" 

It  was  an  effort,  but  I  made  it  firmly.  It  sounded  odd, 
remote,  unreal. 

"Sunlit  woods  and  a  wind  among  the  branches,"  fol- 
lowed close  and  sweet  upon  my  words.  But  who,  in  the 
name  of  Wall  Street,  said  it? 

"England's  buying  gold,"  I  tried  again.  "We've  had 
a  private  wire.     Cut  in  quick.     First  National  is  selling !" 

Great- faced  Hephaestus,  how  ridiculous!  It  was  like 
saying,  "I'll  take  your  scalp  unless  you  give  me  meat." 
It  was  barbaric,  savage,  centuries  ago.  Again  there  came 
another  voice  that  caught  up  my  own  and  turned  it  into 
common  syntax.  Some  heady  beauty  of  the  Earth  rose 
about  me  like  a  cloud. 

"Hark !  Night  comes,  with  the  dusk  upon  her  eyelids. 
She  brings  those  dreams  that  every  dew-drop  holds  at 
dawn.     Daughter  of  Thanatos  and  Hypnos  .    .    .  !" 

But  again — who  said  the  words?  It  surely  was  not 
Arthur,  my  nephew  Arthur,  of  To-day,  learning  French 
in  a  Swiss  mountain  village!  I  felt — well,  what  did  I 
feel?  In  the  name  of  the  Stock  Exchange  and  Wall 
Street,  what  was  the  cash  surrender  of  amazing  feelings  ? 


And,  turning  to  look  at  him,  I  made  a  discovery.  I 
don't  know  how  to  tell  it  quite;  such  shadowy  marvels 
have  never  been  my  line  of  goods.     He  looked  several 


Initiation  87 

things  at  once — taller,  slighter,  sweeter,  but  chiefly — it 
sounds  so  crazy  when  I  write  it  down — grander  is  the 
word,  I  think.  And  all  spread  out  with  some  power  that 
flowed  like  Spring  when  it  pours  upon  a  landscape.  Eter- 
nally young  and  glorious — young,  I  mean,  in  the  sense  of 
a  field  of  flowers  in  the  Spring  looks  young ;  and  glorious 
in  the  sense  the  sky  looks  glorious  at  dawn  or  sunset. 
Something  big  shone  through  him  like  a  storm,  something 
that  would  go  on  for  ever  just  as  the  Earth  goes  on, 
always  renewing  itself,  something  of  gigantic  life  that  in 
the  human  sense  could  never  age  at  all — something  the  old 
gods  had.  But  the  figure,  so  far  as  there  was  any  figure 
at  all,  was  that  old  family  picture  come  to  life.  Our  great 
ancestor  and  Arthur  were  one  being,  and  that  one  being 
was  vaster  than  a  million  people.  Yet  it  was  Malahide 
I  saw.   .    .    . 

'They  laid  me  in  the  earth  I  loved,"  he  said  in  a 
strange,  thrilling  voice  like  running  wind  and  water,  "and 
I  found  eternal  life.  I  live  now  for  ever  in  Their  divine 
existence.  I  share  the  life  that  changes  yet  can  never 
pass  away." 

I  felt  myself  rising  like  a  cloud  as  he  said  it.  A  roar- 
ing beauty  captured  me  completely.  If  I  could  tell  it  in 
honest  newspaper  language — the  common  language  used 
in  flats  and  offices — why,  I  guess  I  could  patent  a  new 
meaning  in  ordinary  words,  a  new  power  of  expression, 
the  thing  that  all  the  churches  and  poets  and  thinkers 
have  been  trying  to  say  since  the  world  began.  I  caught 
on  to  a  fact  so  fine  and  simple  that  it  knocked  me  silly  to 
think  I'd  never  realised  it  before.  I  had  read  it,  yes ; 
but  now  I  knew  it.  The  Earth,  the  whole  bustling  uni- 
verse, was  nothing  after  all  but  a  visible  production  of 
eternal,  living  Powers — spiritual  powers,  mind  you — that 
just  happened  to  include  the  particular  little  type  of  strut- 
ting creature  we  called  mankind.  And  these  Powers,  as 
seen  in  Nature,  were  the  gods.  It  was  our  refusal  of 
their  grand  appeal,  so  wild  and  sweet  and  beautiful,  that 


88  Day  and  Night  Stories 

caused  "evil."  It  was  this  barrier  between  ourselves  and 
the  rest  of   .    .    . 

My  thoughts  and  feelings  swept  away  upon  the  rising 
flood  as  the  "figure"  came  upon  me  like  a  shaft  of  moon- 
light, melting  the  last  remnant  of  opposition  that  was  in 
me.  I  took  my  brain,  my  reason,  chucking  them  aside  for 
the  futile  little  mechanism  I  suddenly  saw  them  to  be.  In 
place  of  them  came — oh,  God,  I  hate  to  say  it,  for  only 
nursery  talk  can  get  within  a  mile  of  it,  and  yet  what  I 
need  is  something  simpler  even  than  the  words  that  chil- 
dren use.  Under  one  arm  I  carried  a  whole  forest 
breathing  in  the  wind,  and  beneath  the  other  a  hundred 
meadows  full  of  singing  streams  with  golden  marigolds 
and  blue  forget-me-nots  along  their  banks.  Upon  my 
back  and  shoulders  lay  the  clouded  hills  with  dew  and 
moonlight  in  their  brimmed,  capacious  hollows.  Thick  in 
my  hair  hung  the  unaging  powers  that  are  stars  and  sun- 
light; though  the  sun  was  far  away,  it  sweetened  the 
currents  of  my  blood  with  liquid  gold.  Breast  and  throat 
and  face,  as  I  advanced,  met  all  the  rivers  of  the  world 
and  all  the  winds  of  heaven,  their  strength  and  swiftness 
melting  into  me  as  light  melts  into  everything  it  touches. 
And  into  my  eyes  passed  all  the  radiant  colours  that 
weave  the  cloth  of  Nature  as  she  takes  the  sun. 

And  this  "figure,"  pouring  upon  me  like  a  burst  of 
moonlight,  spoke : 

"They  all  are  in  you — air,  and  fire,  and  water.   ..." 

"And  I — my  feet  stand — on  the  Earth,'*  my  own  voice 
interrupted,  deep  power  lifting  through  the  sound  of  it. 

"The  Earth!"  He  laughed  gigantically.  He  spread. 
He  seemed  everywhere  about  me.  He  seemed  a  race  of 
men.  My  life  swam  forth  in  waves  of  some  immense 
sensation  that  issued  from  the  mountain  and  the  forest, 
then  returned  to  them  again.  I  reeled.  I  clutched  at 
something  in  me  that  was  slipping  beyond  control,  slip- 
ping down  a  bank  towards  a  deep,  dark  river  flowing  at 
my  feet.    A  shadowy  boat  appeared,  a  still  more  shadowy 


Initiation  89 

outline  at  the  helm.  I  was  in  the  act  of  stepping  into  it. 
For  the  tree  I  caught  at  was  only  air.  I  couldn't  stop 
myself.     I  tried  to  scream. 

''You  have  plucked  asphodel,"  sang  the  voice  beside 
me,  "and  you  shall  pluck  more.   ..." 

I  slipped  and  slipped,  the  speed  increasing  horribly. 
Then  something  caught,  as  though  a  cog  held  fast  and 
stopped  me.  I  remembered  my  business  in  New  York 
City. 

''Arthur!"  I  yelled.  "Arthur!"  I  shouted  again  as 
hard  as  I  could  shout.  There  was  frantic  terror  in  me. 
I  felt  as  though  I  should  never  get  back  to  myself  again. 
Death ! 

The  answer  came  in  his  normal  voice:  "Keep  close 
to  me.     I  know  the  way.   ..." 

The  scenery  dwindled  suddenly;  the  trees  came  back. 
I  was  walking  in  the  forest  beside  my  nephew,  and  the 
moonlight  lay  in  patches  and  little  shafts  of  silver.  The 
crests  of  the  pines  just  murmured  in  a  wind  that  scarcely 
stirred,  and  through  an  opening  on  our  right  I  saw  the 
deep  valley  clasped  about  the  twinkling  village  lights. 
Towering  in  splendour  the  spectral  snowfields  hung  upon 
the  sky,  huge  summits  guarding  them.  And  Arthur  took 
my  arm — oh,  soHdly  enough  this  time.  Thank  heaven,  he 
asked  no  questions  of  me. 

"There's  a  smell  of  myrrh,"  he  whispered,  "and  we  are 
very  near  the  undying,  ancient  things." 

I  said  something  about  the  resin  from  the  trees,  but  he 
took  no  notice. 

"It  enclosed  its  body  in  an  egg  of  myrrh,"  he  went  on, 
smiling  down  at  me;  "then,  setting  it  on  fire,  rose  from 
the  ashes  with  its  life  renewed.  Once  every  five  hundred 
years,  you  see " 

"What  did?"  I  cried,  feeling  that  loss  of  self  stealing 
over  me  again.  And  his  answer  came  like  a  blow  between 
the  eyes: 


90  Day  and  Night  Stories 

'The  Phoenix.  They  called  it  a  bird,  but,  of  course, 
the  true  ..." 

*'But  my  life's  insured  in  that,"  I  cried,  for  he  had 
named  the  company  that  took  large  yearly  premiums 
from  me ;  "and  I  pay  ..." 

"Your  life's  insured  in  this"  he  said  quietly,  waving 
his  arms  to  indicate  the  Earth.  "Your  love  of  Nature 
and  your  sympathy  v^ith  it  make  you  safe."  He  gazed  at 
me.  There  was  a  marvellous  expression  in  his  eyes.  I 
understood  why  poets  talked  of  stars  and  flowers  in  a 
human  face.  But  behind  the  face  crept  back  another  look 
as  well.  There  grew  about  his  figure  an  indeterminate 
extension.  The  outline  of  Malahide  again  stirred  through 
his  own.  A  pale,  delicate  hand  reached  out  to  take  my 
own.    And  something  broke  in  me. 

I  was  conscious  of  two  things — a  burst  of  joy  that 
meant  losing  myself  entirely,  and  a  rush  of  terror  that 
meant  staying  as  I  was,  a  small,  painful,  struggling  item 
of  individual  life.  Another  spray  of  that  awful  asphodel 
fell  fluttering  through  the  air  in  front  of  my  face.  It 
rested  on  the  earth  against  my  feet.  And  Arthur — this 
weirdly  changing  Arthur — stooped  to  pick  it  for  me.  I 
kicked  it  with  my  foot  beyond  his  reach  .  .  .  then 
turned  and  ran  as  though  the  Furies  of  that  ancient  world 
were  after  me.  I  ran  for  my  very  Hfe.  How  I  escaped 
from  that  thick  wood  without  banging  my  body  to  bits 
against  the  trees  I  can't  explain.  I  ran  from  something 
I  desired  and  yet  feared.  I  leaped  along  in  a  succession 
of  flying  bounds.  Each  tree  I  passed  turned  of  its  own 
accord  and  flung  after  me  until  the  entire  forest  followed. 
But  I  got  out.  I  reached  the  open.  Upon  the  sloping 
field  in  the  full,  clear  light  of  the  moon  I  collapsed  in  a 
panting  heap.  The  Earth  drew  back  with  a  great  shud- 
dering sigh  behind  me.  There  was  this  strange,  tumultu- 
ous sound  upon  the  night.  I  lay  beneath  the  open  heav- 
ens that  were  full  of  moonlight.  I  was  myself — but  there 
were  tears  in  me'.     Beauty  too  high  for  understanding 


Initiation  91 

had  slipped  between  my  fingers.  I  had  lost  Malahide.  I 
had  lost  the  gods  of  Earth.  .  .  .  Yet  I  had  seen  .  .  . 
and  felt.  I  had  not  lost  all.  Something  remained  that  I 
could  never  lose  again.   .    .    . 

I  don't  know  how  it  happened  exactly,  but  presently  I 
heard  Arthur  saying:  "You'll  catch  your  death  of  cold 
if  you  lie  on  that  soaking  grass,"  and  felt  his  hand  seize 
mine  to  pull  me  to  my  feet. 

"I  feel  safer  on  earth,"  I  believe  I  answered.  And 
then  he  said :  ''Yes,  but  it's  such  a  stupid  way  to  die — 
a  chill  r 


I  got  up  then,  and  we  went  downhill  together  towards 
the  village  lights.  I  danced — oh,  I  admit  it — I  sang  as 
well.  There  was  a  flood  of  joy  and  power  about  me 
that  beat  anything  I'd  ever  felt  before.  I  didn't  think  or 
hesitate ;  there  was  no  self-consciousness ;  I  just  let  it  rip 
for  all  there  was,  and  if  there  had  been  ten  thousand  peo- 
ple there  in  front  of  me,  I  could  have  made  them  feel  it 
too.  That  was  the  kind  of  feeling — power  and  confidence 
and  a  sort  of  raging  happiness.  I  think  I  know  what  it 
was  too.  I  say  this  soberly,  with  reverence  ...  all  wool 
and  no  fading.  There  was  a  bit  of  God  in  me,  God's 
power  that  drives  the  Earth  and  pours  through  Nature 
— the  imperishable  Beauty  expressed  in  those  old-world 
nature-deities ! 

And  the  fear  I'd  felt  was  nothing  but  the  little  tickling 
point  of  losing  my  ordinary  two-cent  self,  the  dread  of 
letting  go,  the  shrinking  before  the  plunge — what  a  fel- 
low feels  when  he's  falling  in  love,  and  hesitates,  and 
tries  to  think  it  out  and  hold  back,  and  is  afraid  to  let  the 
enormous  tide  flow  in  and  drown  him. 

Oh,  yes,  I  began  to  think  it  over  a  bit  as  we  raced  down 
the  mountain-side  that  glorious  night.  I've  read  some  in 
my  day ;  my  brain's  all  right ;  I've  heard  of  dual  person- 
ality and  subliminal  uprush  and  conversion — no  new  line 


92  Day  and  Night  Stories 

of  goods,  all  that.  But  somehow  these  stunts  of  the  psy- 
chologists and  philosophers  didn't  cut  any  ice  with  me 
just  then,  because  I'd  experienced  what  they  merely  ex- 
plained. And  explanation  was  just  a  bargain  sale.  The 
best  things  can't  be  explained  at  all.  There's  no  real 
value  in  a  bargain  sale. 

Arthur  had  trouble  to  keep  up  with  me.  We  were 
running  due  east,  and  the  Earth  was  turning,  therefore, 
with  us.  We  all  three  ran  together  at  her  pace — terrific ! 
The  moonlight  danced  along  the  summits,  and  the  snow- 
fields  flew  Hke  spreading  robes,  and  the  forests  every- 
where, far  and  near,  hung  watching  us  and  booming  like 
a  thousand  organs.  There  were  uncaged  winds  about; 
you  could  hear  them  whistling  among  the  precipices.  But 
the  great  thing  that  I  knew  was — Beauty,  a  beauty  of  the 
common  old  familiar  Earth,  and  a  beauty  that's  stayed 
with  me  ever  since,  and  given  me  joy  and  strength  and 
a  source  of  power  and  delight  I'd  never  guessed  existed 
before. 

As  we  dropped  lower  into  the  thicker  air  of  the  valley 
I  sobered  down.  Gradually  the  ecstasy  passed  from  me. 
We  slowed  up  a  bit.  The  lights  and  the  houses  and  the 
sight  of  the  hotel  where  people  were  dancing  in  a  stuffy 
ballroom,  all  this  put  blotting-paper  on  something  that 
had  been  flowing. 

Now  you'll  think  this  an  odd  thing  too — but  when  we 
reached  the  village  street,  I  just  took  Arthur's  hand  and 
shook  it  and  said  good-night  and  went  up  to  bed  and  slept 
like  a  two-year-old  till  morning.  And  from  that  day  to 
this  I've  never  set  eyes  on  the  boy  again. 

Perhaps  it's  difficult  to  explain,  and  perhaps  it  isn't.  I 
can  explain  it  to  myself  in  two  lines — I  was  afraid  to 
see  him.  I  was  afraid  he  might  ''explain."  I  was  afraid 
he  might  explain  "away."  I  just  left  a  note — he  never 
replied  to  it — and  went  off  by  a  morning  train.  Can  you 
understand  that?     Because  if  you  can't  you  haven't  un- 


Initiation  93 

derstood  this  account  I've  tried  to  give  of  the  experience 
Arthur  gave  me.  Well — anyway — I'll  just  let  it  go  at 
that. 

Arthur's  a  director  now  in  his  father's  wholesale  chem- 
ical business,  and  I — well,  I'm  doing  better  than  ever  in 
the  buying  and  selling  of  exchange  between  banks  in  New 
York  City  as  before. 

But  when  I  said  I  was  still  drawing  dividends  on  my 
Swiss  investment,  I  meant  it.  And  it's  not  "scenery." 
Everybody  gets  a  thrill  from  "scenery."  It's  a  darned 
sight  more  than  that.  It's  those  little  wayward  patches  of 
blue  on  a  cloudy  day;  those  blue  pools  in  the  sky  just 
above  Trinity  Church  steeple  when  I  pass  out  of  Wall 
Street  into  Lower  Broadway;  it's  the  rustle  of  the  sea- 
wind  among  the  Battery  trees;  the  wash  of  the  waves 
when  the  Ferry's  starting  for  Staten  Island,  and  the  glint 
of  the  sun  far  down  the  Bay,  or  dropping  a  bit  of  pearl 
into  the  old  East  River.  And  sometimes  it's  the  strip 
of  cloud  in  the  west  above  the  Jersey  shore  of  the  Hud- 
son, the  first  star,  the  sickle  of  the  new  moon  behind  the 
masts  and  shipping.  But  usually  it's  something  nearer, 
bigger,  simpler  than  all  or  any  of  these.  It's  just  the  cer-. 
tainty  that,  when  I  hurry  along  the  hard  stone  pavements 
from  bank  to  bank,  I'm  walking  on  the — Earth,  It's  just 
that — the  Earth! 


V 

A  DESERT  EPISODE 


"Better  put  wraps  on  now.  The  sun's  getting  low,"  a 
girl  said. 

It  was  the  end  of  a  day's  expedition  in  the  Arabian 
Desert,  and  they  were  having  tea.  A  few  yards  away  the 
donkeys  munched  their  barsim;  beside  them  in  the  sand 
the  boys  lay  finishing  bread  and  jam.  Immense,  with 
gliding  tread,  the  sun's  rays  slid  from  crest  to  crest  of  the 
limestone  ridges  that  broke  the  huge  expanse  towards  the 
Red  Sea.  By  the  time  the  tea-things  were  packed  the 
sun  hovered,  a  giant  ball  of  red,  above  the  Pyramids.  It 
stood  in  the  western  sky  a  moment,  looking  out  of  its 
majestic  hood  across  the  sand.  With  a  movement  almost 
visible  it  leaped,  paused,  then  leaped  again.  It  seemed  to 
bound  towards  the  horizon;  then,  suddenly,  was  gone. 

*Tt  is  cold,  yes,"  said  the  painter.  Rivers.  And  all  who 
heard  looked  up  at  him  because  of  the  way  he  said  it.  A 
hurried  movement  ran  through  the  merry  party,  and  the 
girls  were  on  their  donkeys  quickly,  not  wishing  to  be  left 
to  bring  up  the  rear.  They  clattered  off.  The  boys 
cried;  the  thud  of  sticks  was  heard;  hoofs  shuffled 
through  the  sand  and  stones.  In  single  file  the  picnickers 
headed  for  Helouan,  some  five  miles  distant.  And  the 
desert  closed  up  behind  them  as  they  went,  following  in 
a  shadowy  wave  that  never  broke,  noiseless,  foamless, 
unstreaked,  driven  by  no  wind,  and  of  a  volume  undis- 
coverable.  Against  the  orange  sunset  the  .  Pyramids 
turned  deep  purple.  The  strip  of  silvery  Nile  among  its 
palm  trees   looked   like   rising  mist.     In  the  incredible 

94 


A  Desert  Episode  95 

Egyptian  afterglow  the  enormous  horizons  burned  a  little 
longer,  then  went  out.  The  ball  of  the  earth — a  huge 
round  globe  that  bulged — curved  visibly  as  at  sea.  It  was 
no  longer  a  flat  expanse;  it  turned.  Its  splendid  curves 
were  realised. 

"Better  put  wraps  on;  it's  cold  and  the  sun  is  low" — 
and  then  the  curious  hurry  to  get  back  among  the  houses 
and  the  haunts  of  men.  No  more  was  said,  perhaps,  than 
this,  yet,  the  time  and  place  being  what  they  were,  the 
mind  became  suddenly  aware  of  that  quality  which  ever 
brings  a  certain  shrinking  with  it — vastness ;  and  more 
than  vastness:  that  which  is  endless  because  it  is  also 
beginningless — eternity.  A  colossal  splendour  stole  upon 
the  heart,  and  the  senses,  unaccustomed  to  the  unusual 
stretch,  reeled  a  little,  as  though  the  wonder  was  more 
than  could  be  faced  with  comfort.  Not  all,  doubtless, 
realised  it,  though  to  two,  at  least,  it  came  with  a  stag- 
gering impact  there  was  no  withstanding.  For,  while  the 
luminous  greys  and  purples  crept  round  them  from  the 
sandy  wastes,  the  hearts  of  these  two  became  aware  of 
certain  common  things  whose  simple  majesty  is  usually 
dulled  by  mere  familiarity.  Neither  the  man  nor  the  girl 
knew  for  certain  that  the  other  felt  it,  as  they  brought  up 
the  rear  together;  yet  the  fact  that  each  did  feel  it  set 
them  side  by  side  in  the  same  strange  circle — and  made 
them  silent.  They  realised  the  immensity  of  a  moment: 
the  dizzy  stretch  of  time  that  led  up  to  the  casual  pinning 
of  a  veil;  to  the  tightening  of  a  stirrup  strap;  to  the  little 
speech  with  a  companion;  the  roar  of  the  vanished  cen- 
turies that  have  ground  mountains  into  sand  and  spread 
them  over  the  floor  of  Africa ;  above  all,  to  the  little  truth 
that  they  themselves  existed  amid  the  whirl  of  stupendous 
systems  all  delicately  balanced  as  a  spider's  web — that 
they  were  alive. 

For  a  moment  this  vast  scale  of  reality  revealed  itself, 
then  hid  swiftly  again  behind  the  debris  of  the  obvious. 
The  universe,   containing  their  two  tiny  yet  important 


96  Day  and  Night  Stories 

selves,  stood  still  for  an  instant  before  their  eyes.  They 
looked  at  it — realised  that  they  belonged  to  it.  Every- 
thing moved  and  had  its  being,  lived — here  in  this  silent, 
empty  desert  even  more  actively  than  in  a  city  of  crowded 
houses.  The  quiet  Nile,  sighing  with  age,  passed  down 
towards  the  sea;  there  loomed  the  menacing  Pyramids 
across  the  twilight;  beneath  them,  in  monstrous  dignity, 
crouched  that  Shadow  from  whose  eyes  of  battered  stone 
proceeds  the  nameless  thing  that  contracts  the  heart,  then 
opens  it  again  to  terror ;  and  everywhere,  from  towering 
monoliths  as  from  secret  tombs,  rose  that  strange,  long 
whisper  which,  defying  time  and  distance,  laughs  at  death. 
The  spell  of  Egypt,  which  is  the  spell  of  immortality, 
touched  their  hearts. 

Already,  as  the  group  of  picnickers  rode  homewards 
now,  the  first  stars  twinkled  overhead,  and  the  peerless 
Egyptian  night  was  on  the  way.  There  was  hurry  in  the 
passing  of  the  dusk.     And  the  cold  sensibly  increased. 

"So  you  did  no  painting  after  all,"  said  Rivers  to  the 
girl  who  rode  a  little  in  front  of  him,  "for  I  never  saw  you 
touch  your  sketch-book  once." 

They  were  some  distance  now  behind  the  others;  the 
line  straggled;  and  when  no  answer  came  he  quickened 
his  pace,  drew  up  alongside  and  saw  that  her  eyes,  in  the 
reflection  of  the  sunset,  shone  with  moisture.  But  she 
turned  her  head  a  Httle,  smiling  into  his  face,  so  that  the 
human  and  the  non-human  beauty  came  over  him  with  an 
onset  that  was  almost  shock.  Neither  one  nor  other,  he 
knew,  were  long  for  him,  and  the  realisation  fell  upon  him 
with  a  pang  of  actual  physical  pain.  The  acuteness,  the 
hopelessness  of  the  realisation,  for  a  moment,  were  more 
than  he  could  bear,  stern  of  temper  though  he  was,  and 
he  tried  to  pass  in  front  of  her,  urging  his  donkey  with 
resounding  strokes.  Her  own  animal,  however,  following 
the  lead,  at  once  came  up  with  him. 

"You  felt  it,  perhaps,  as  I  did,"  he  said  some  moments 
later,  his  voice  quite   steady  again.     "The  stupendous, 


A  Desert  Episode  97 

everlasting  thing — the — life  behind  it  all."  He  hesitated 
a  little  in  his  speech,  unable  to  find  the  substantive  that 
could  compass  even  a  fragment  of  his  thought.  She 
paused,  too,  similarly  inarticulate  before  the  surge  of  in- 
comprehensible feelings. 

'It's — awful,"  she  said,  half  laughing,  yet  the  tone 
hushed  and  a  little  quaver  in  it  somewhere.  And  her 
voice  to  his  was  like  the  first  sound  he  had  ever  heard  in 
the  world,  for  the  first  sound  a  full-grown  man  heard  in 
the  world  would  be  beyond  all  telling — magical.  "1  shall 
not  try  again,"  she  continued,  leaving  out  the  laughter 
this  time;  "my  sketch-book  is  a  farce.  For,  to  tell  the 
truth" — and  the  next  three  words  she  said  below  her 
breath — *'I  dare  not." 

He  turned  and  looked  at  her  for  a  second.  It  seemed 
to  him  that  the  following  wave  had  caught  them  up,  and 
was  about  to  break  above  her,  too.  But  the  big-brimmed 
hat  and  the  streaming  veil  shrouded  her  features.  He 
saw,  instead,  the  Universe.  He  felt  as  though  he  and  she 
had  always,  always  been  together,  and  always,  always 
would  be.     Separation  was  inconceivable. 

''It  came  so  close,"  she  whispered.     "It — shook  me !" 

They  were  cut  off  from  their  companions,  whose  voices 
sounded  far  ahead.  Her  words  might  have  been  spoken 
by  the  darkness,  or  by  some  one  who  peered  at  them  from 
within  that  following  wave.  Yet  the  fanciful  phrase  was 
better  than  any  he  could  find.  From  the  immeasurable 
space  of  time  and  distance  men's  hearts  vainly  seek  to 
plumb,  it  drew  into  closer  perspective  a  certain  meaning 
that  words  may  hardly  compass,  a  formidable  truth  that 
belongs  to  that  deep  place  where  hope  and  doubt  fight 
their  incessant  battle.  The  awe  she  spoke  of  was  the  awe 
of  immortality,  of  belonging  to  something  that  is  endless 
and  beginningless. 

And  he  understood  that  the  tears  and  laughter  were  one 
— caused  by  that  spell  which  takes  a  little  human  life  and 
shakes  it,  as  an  animal  shakes  its  prey  that  later  shall 


98  Day  and  Night  Stories 

feed  its  blood  and  increase  its  power  of  growth.  His 
other  thoughts — really  but  a  single  thought — he  had  not 
the  right  to  utter.  Pain  this  time  easily  routed  hope  as 
the  wave  came  nearer.  For  it  was  the  wave  of  death  that 
would  shortly  break,  he  knew,  over  him,  but  not  over 
her.  Him  it  would  sweep  with  its  huge  withdrawal  into 
the  desert  whence  it  came :  her  it  would  leave  high  upon 
the  shores  of  life — alone.  And  yet  the  separation  would 
somehow  not  be  real.  They  were  together  in  eternity 
even  now.  They  were  endless  as  this  desert,  beginning- 
less  as  this  sky  .  .  .  immortal.  The  realisation  over- 
whelmed.  .    .    . 

The  lights  of  Helouan  seemed  to  come  no  nearer  as 
they  rode  on  in  silence  for  the  rest  of  the  way.  Against 
the  dark  background  of  the  Mokattam  Hills  these  fairy 
lights  twinkled  brightly,  hanging  in  mid-air,  but  after  an 
hour  they  were  no  closer  than  before.  It  was  like  riding 
towards  the  stars.  It  would  take  centuries  to  reach  them. 
There  were  centuries  in  which  to  do  so.  Hurry  has  no 
place  in  the  desert;  it  is  born  in  streets.  The  desert 
stands  still ;  to  go  fast  in  it  is  to  go  backwards.  Now,  in 
particular,  its  enormous,  uncanny  leisure  was  everywhere 
— in  keeping  with  that  mighty  scale  the  sunset  had  made 
visible.  His  thoughts,  like  the  steps  of  the  weary  animal 
that  bore  him,  had  no  progress  in  them.  The  serpent  of 
eternity,  holding  its  tail  in  its  own  mouth,  rose  from  the 
sand,  enclosing  himself,  the  stars — and  her.  Behind  him, 
in  the  hollows  of  that  shadowy  wave,  the  procession  of 
dynasties  and  conquests,  the  great  series  of  gorgeous 
civilisations  the  mind  calls  Past,  stood  still,  crowded  with 
shining  eyes  and  beckoning  faces,  still  waiting  to  arrive. 
There  is  no  death  in  Egypt.  His  own  death  stood  so  close 
that  he  could  touch  it  by  stretching  out  his  hand,  yet  it 
seemed  as  much  behind  as  in  front  of  him.  What  man 
called  a  beginning  was  a  trick.  There  was  no  such  thing. 
He  was  with  this  girl — nozv,  when  Death  waited  so  close 
for  him — yet  he  had  never  really  begun.     Their  lives  ran 


A  Desert  Episode  99 

always  parallel.  The  hand  he  stretched  to  clasp  ap- 
proaching death  caught  instead  in  this  girl's  shadowy 
hair,  drawing  her  in  with  him  to  the  centre  where  he 
breathed  the  eternity  of  the  desert.  Yet  expression  of 
any  sort  was  as  futile  as  it  was  unnecessary.  To  paint, 
to  speak,  to  sing,  even  the  slightest  gesture  of  the  soul, 
became  a  crude  and  foolish  thing.  Silence  was  here  the 
truth.  And  they  rode  in  silence  towards  the  fairy  lights. 
Then  suddenly  the  rocky  ground  rose  up  close  before 
them ;  boulders  stood  out  vividly  with  black  shadows  and 
shining  heads;  a  flat-roofed  house  sHd  by;  three  palm 
trees  rattled  in  the  evening  wind;  beyond,  a  mosque  and 
minaret  sailed  upwards,  like  the  spars  and  rigging  of  some 
phantom  craft;  and  the  colonnades  of  the  great  modern 
hotel,  standing  upon  its  dome  of  limestone  ridge,  loomed 
over  them.  Helouan  was  about  them  before  they  knew 
it.  The  desert  lay  behind  with  its  huge,  arrested  billow. 
Slowly,  owing  to  its  prodigious  volume,  yet  with  a  speed 
that  merged  it  instantly  with  the  far  horizon  behind  the 
night,  this  wave  now  withdrew  a  little.  There  was  no 
hurry.  It  came,  for  the  moment,  no  farther.  Rivers 
knew.  For  he  was  in  it  to  the  throat.  Only  his  head 
was  above  the  surface.  He  still  could  breathe — and 
speak — and  see.  Deepening  with  every  hour  into  an  in- 
calculable splendour,  it  waited. 


In  the  street  the  foremost  riders  drew  rein,  and,  two 
and  two  abreast,  the  long  line  clattered  past  the  shops  and 
cafes,  the  railway  station  and  hotels,  stared  at  by  the 
natives  from  the  busy  pavements.  The  donkeys  stum- 
bled, blinded  by  the  electric  light.  Girls  in  white  dresses 
flitted  here  and  there,  arabiyehs  rattled  past  with  people 
hurrying  home  to  dress  for  dinner,  and  the  evening  train, 
just  in  from  Cairo,  disgorged  its  stream  of  passengers. 
There  were  dances  in  several  of  the  hotels  that  night. 


100  Day  and  Night  Stories 

Voices  rose  on  all  sides.  Questions  and  answers,  engage- 
ments and  appointments  were  made,  little  plans  and  plots 
and  intrigues  for  seizing  happiness  on  the  wing — before 
the  wave  rolled  in  and  caught  the  lot.  They  chattered 
gaily : 

*' You  are  going,  aren't  you  ?    You  promised " 

"Of  course  I  am." 

"Then  I'll  drive  you  over.    May  I  call  for  you  ?" 

"All  right.    Come  at  ten." 

"We  shan't  have  finished  our  bridge  by  then.  Say  ten- 
thirty." 

And  eyes  exchanged  their  meaning  signals.  The  group 
dismounted  and  dispersed.  Arabs  standing  under  the 
lebbekh  trees,  or  squatting  on  the  pavements  before  their 
dim-lit  booths,  watched  them  with  faces  of  gleaming 
bronze.  Rivers  gave  his  bridle  to  a  donkey-boy,  and 
moved  across  stiffly  after  the  long  ride  to  help  the  girl 
dismount.  "You  feel  tired?"  he  asked  gently.  "It's 
been  a  long  day."  For  her  face  was  white  as  chalk, 
though  the  eyes  shone  brilliantly. 

"Tired,  perhaps,"  she  answered,  "but  exhilarated  too. 
I  should  like  to  be  there  now.  I  should  like  to  go 
back  this  minute — if  some  one  would  take  me."  And, 
though  she  said  it  lightly,  there  was  a  meaning  in  her 
voice  he  apparently  chose  to  disregard.  It  was  as  if 
she  knew  his  secret.  "Will  you  take  me — some  day 
soon?" 

The  direct  question,  spoken  by  those  determined  little 
lips,  was  impossible  to  ignore.  He  looked  close  into  her 
face  as  he  helped  her  from  the  saddle  with  a  spring  that 
brought  her  a  moment  half  into  his  arms.  "Some  day — 
soon.  I  will,"  he  said  with  emphasis,  "when  you  are 
— ready."  The  pallor  in  her  face,  and  a  certain  ex- 
pression in  it  he  had  not  known  before,  startled  him. 
"I  think  you  have  been  overdoing  it,"  he  added,  with  a 
tone  in  which  authority  and  love  were  oddly  mingled, 
neither  of  them  disguised. 


A  Desert  Epi^dt? '  ibi 


"Like  yourself,"  she  smiled,  diatking .h^i-  sk^fts/tiiit' 
and  looking  down  at  her  dusty  shoes.     "I've  only  a  few 
days  more — before  I  sail.     We're  both  in  such  a  hurry, 
but  you  are  the  worst  of  the  two." 

"Because  my  time  is  even  shorter,"  ran  his  horrified 
thought — for  he  said  no  word. 

She  raised  her  eyes  suddenly  to  his,  with  an  expres- 
sion that  for  an  instant  almost  convinced  him  she  had 
guessed — and  the  soul  in  him  stood  rigidly  at  attention, 
urging  back  the  rising  fires.  The  hair  had  dropped 
loosely  round  the  sun-burned  neck.  Her  face  was  level 
with  his  shoulder.  Even  the  glare  of  the  street  lights 
could  not  make  her  undesirable.  But  behind  the  gaze 
of  the  deep  brown  eyes  another  thing  looked  forth  im- 
peratively into  his  own.  And  he  recognised  it  with  a 
rush  of  terror,  yet  of  singular  exultation. 

"It  followed  us  all  the  way,"  she  whispered.  "It  came 
after  us  from  the  desert — where  it  lives/' 

"At  the  houses,"  he  said  equally  low,  "it  stopped." 
He  gladly  adopted  her  syncopated  speech,  for  it  helped 
him  in  his  struggle  to  subdue  those  rising  fires. 

For  a  second  she  hesitated.  "You  mean,  if  we  had  not 
left  so  soon — when  it  turned  cold.  If  we  had  not  hur- 
ried— if  we  had  remained  a  little  longer " 

He  caught  at  her  hand,  unable  to  control  himself, 
but  dropped  it  again  the  same  second,  while  she  made 
as  though  she  had  not  noticed,  forgiving  him  with  her 
eyes.  "Or  a  great  deal  longer,"  she  added  slowly — 
"for  ever?" 

And  then  he  was  certain  that  she  had  guessed — not 
that  he  loved  her  above  all  else  in  the  world,  for  that 
was  so  obvious  that  a  child  might  know  it,  but  that  his 
silence  was  due  to  his  other,  lesser  secret;  that  the  great 
Executioner  stood  waiting  to  drop  the  hood  about  his 
eyes.  He  was  already  pinioned.  Something  in  her  gaze 
and  in  her  manner  persuaded  him  suddenly  that  she 
understood. 


102  Day  and  Night  Stories 

^^  Siis-^Gxhilai-^ti^kii  increased  extraordinarily.  "I  mean," 
he  said  very  quietly,  "that  the  spell  weakens  here  among 
the  houses  and  among  the — so-called  living."  There 
was  masterfulness,  triumph,  in  his  voice.  Very  wonder- 
fully he  saw  her  smile  change ;  she  drew  slightly  closer 
to  his  side,  as  though  unable  to  resist.  "Mingled  with 
lesser  things  we  should  not  understand  completely,"  he 
added  softly. 

"And  that  might  be  a  mistake,  you  mean?"  she  asked 
quickly,  her  face  grave  again. 

It  was  his  turn  to  hesitate  a  moment.  The  breeze 
stirred  the  hair  about  her  neck,  bringing  its  faint  per- 
fume— perfume  of  young  life — to  his  nostrils.  He  drew 
his  breath  in  deeply,  smothering  back  the  torrent  of  ris- 
ing words  he  knew  were  unpermissible.  "Misunder- 
standing," he  said  briefly.     "If  the  eye  be  single " 

He  broke  off,  shaken  by  a  paroxysm  of  coughing.  "You 
know  my  meaning,"  he  continued,  as  soon  as  the  attack 
had  passed ;  "you  feel  the  difference  here,"  pointing  round 
him  to  the  hotels,  the  shops,  the  busy  stream  of  people ; 
"the  hurry,  the  excitement,  the  feverish,  blinding  child's 

play  which  pretends  to  be  alive,  but  does  not  know  it " 

And  again  the  coughing  stopped  him.  This  time  she  took 
his  hand  in  her  own,  pressed  it  very  slightly,  then  re- 
leased it.  He  felt  it  as  the  touch  of  that  desert  wave 
upon  his  soul.  "The  reception  must  be  in  complel:e  and 
utter  resignation.  Tainted  by  lesser  things,  the  dis- 
harmony might  be "  he  began  stammeringly. 

Again  there  came  interruption,  as  the  rest  of  the  party 
called  impatiently  to  know  if  they  were  coming  up  to  the 
hotel.  He  had  not  time  to  find  the  completing  adjective. 
Perhaps  he  could  not  find  it  ever.  Perhaps  it  does  not 
exist  in  any  modem  language.  Eternity  is  not  realised 
to-day;  men  have  no  time  to  know  they  are  alive  for 
ever;  they  are  too  busy.  .  .  . 

They  all  moved  in  a  clattering,  merry  group  towards 
the  big  hotel.    Rivers  and  the  girl  were  separated.  * 


A  Desert  Episode  103 


There  was  a  dance  that  evening,  but  neither  of  these 
took  part  in  it.  In  the  great  dining-room  their  tables 
were  far  apart.  He  could  not  even  see  her  across  the 
sea  of  intervening  heads  and  shoulders.  The  long  meal 
over,  he  went  to  his  room,  feeling  it  imperative  to  be 
alone.  He  did  not  read,  he  did  not  write ;  but,  leaving  the 
light  unlit,  he  wrapped  himself  up  and  leaned  out  upon 
the  broad  window-sill  into  the  great  Egyptian  night.  His 
deep-sunken  thoughts,  like  to  the  crowding  stars,  stood 
still,  yet  for  ever  took  new  shapes.  He  tried  to  see 
behind  them,  as,  when  a  boy,  he  had  tried  to  see  behind 
the  constellations — out  into  space — where  there  is  noth- 
ing. 

Below  him  the  lights  of  Helouan  twinkled  like  the 
Pleiades  reflected  in  a  pool  of  water;  a  hum  of  queer 
soft  noises  rose  to  his  ears;  but  just  beyond  the  houses 
the  desert  stood  at  attention,  the  vastest  thing  he  had 
ever  known,  very  stern,  yet  very  comforting,  with  its 
peace  beyond  all  comprehension,  its  delicate,  wild  terror, 
and  its  awful  message  of  immortality.  And  the  attitude 
of  his  mind,  though  he  did  not  know  it,  was  one  of 
prayer.  .  .  .  From  time  to  time  he  went  to  lie  on  the  bed 
with  paroxysms  of  coughing.  He  had  overtaxed  his 
strength — his  swiftly  fading  strength.  The  wave  had 
risen  to  his  lips. 

Nearer  forty  than  thirty-five,  Paul  Rivers  had  come 
out  to  Egypt,  plainly  understanding  that  with  the  great- 
est care  he  might  last  a  few  weeks  longer  than  if  he 
stayed  in  England.  A  few  more  times  to  see  the  sunset 
and  the  sunrise,  to  watch  the  stars,  feel  the  soft  airs  of 
earth  upon  his  cheeks;  a  few  more  days  of  intercourse 
with  his  kind,  asking  and  answering  questions,  wearing 
the  old  familiar  clothes  he  loved,  reading  his  favourite 
pages,  ^nd  then — out  into  the  big  spaces — where  there  is 
nothing. 


104  Day  and  Night  Stories 

Yet  no  one,  from  his  stalwart,  energetic  figure,  would 
have  guessed — no  one  but  the  expert  mind,  not  to  be 
deceived,  to  whom  in  the  first  attack  of  overwhelming 
despair  and  desolation  he  went  for  final  advice.  He 
left  that  house,  as  many  had  left  it  before,  knowing  that 
soon  he  would  need  no  earthly  protection  of  roof  and 
walls,  and  that  his  soul,  if  it  existed,  would  be  shelterless 
in  the  space  behind  all  manifested  life/^  He  had  looked 
forward  to  fame  and  position  in  this  world ;  had,  indeed, 
already  achieved  the  first  step  towards  this  end;  and 
now,  with  the  vanity  of  all  earthly  aims  so  mercilessly 
clear  before  him,  he  had  turned,  in  somewhat  of  a 
nervous,  concentrated  hurry,  to  make  terms  with  the 
Infinite  while  still  the  brain  was  there.  And  had,  of 
course,  found  nothing.  For  it  takes  a  lifetime  crowded 
with  experiment  and  effort  to  learn  even  the  alphabet  of 
genuine  faith;  and  what  could  come  of  a  few  weeks' 
wild  questioning  but  confusion  and  bewilderment  of 
mind?  It  was  inevitable.  He  came  out  to  Egypt  won- 
dering, thinking,  questioning,  but  chiefly  wondering.  He 
had  grown,  that  is,  more  childlike,  abandoning  the  futile 
tool  of  Reason,  which  hitherto  had  seemed  to  him  the 
perfect  instrument.  Its  foolishness  stood  naked  before 
him  in  the  pitiless  light  of  the  specialist's  decision.  For — 
**Who  can  by  searching  find  out  God  ?" 

To  be  exceedingly  careful  of  over-exertion  was  the 
final  warning  he  brought  with  him,  and,  within  a  few 
hours  of  his  arrival,  three  weeks  ago,  he  had  met  this 
girl  and  utterly  disregarded  it.  He  took  it  somewhat 
thus:  "Instead  of  lingering  I'll  enjoy  myself  and  go  out — 
a  little  sooner.  I'll  live.  The  time  is  very  short."  His 
was  not  a  nature,  anyhow,  that  could  heed  a  warning. 
He  could  not  kneel.  Upright  and  unflinching,  he  went 
to  meet  things  as  they  came,  reckless,  unwise,  but  cer- 
tainly not  afraid.  And  this  cliaracteristic  operated  now. 
He  ran  to  meet  Death  full  tilt  in  the  uncharted  spaces 
that  lay  behind  the  stars.     With  love  for  a  companion 


A  Desert  Episode  105 

now,  he  raced,  his  speed  increasing  from  day  to  day, 
she,  as  he  thought,  knowing  merely  that  he  sought  her, 
but  had  not  guessed  his  darker  secret  that  was  now  his 
lesser  secret. 

And  in  the  desert,  this  afternoon  of  the  picnic,  the 
great  thing  he  sped  to  meet  had  shown  itself  with  its 
familiar  touch  of  appalling  cold  and  shadow,  familiar,  be- 
cause all  minds  know  of  and  accept  it ;  appalling  because, 
until  realised  close,  and  with  the  mental  power  at  the 
full,  it  remains  but  a  name  the  heart  refuses  to  believe 
in.    And  he  had  discovered  that  its  name  was — Life. 

Rivers  had  seen  the  Wave  that  sweeps  incessant,  tire- 
less, but  as  a  rule  invisible,  round  the  great  curve  of 
the  bulging  earth,  brushing  the  nations  into  the  deeps 
behind.  It  had  followed  him  home  to  the  streets  and 
houses  of  Helouan.  He  saw  it  now,  as  he  leaned  from 
his  window,  dim  and  immense,  too  huge  to  break.  Its 
beauty  was  nameless,  undecipherable.  His  coughing 
echoed  back  from  the  wall  of  its  great  sides.  .  .  .  And 
the  music  floated  up  at  the  same  time  from  the  ball- 
room in  the  opposite  wing.  The  two  sounds  mingled. 
Life,  which  is  love,  and  Death,  which  is  their  unchang- 
ing partner,  held  hands  beneath  the  stars. 

He  leaned  out  farther  to  drink  in  the  cool,  sweet  air. 
Soon,  on  this  air,  his  body  would  be  dust,  driven,  per- 
haps, against  her  very  cheek,  trodden  on  possibly  by  her 
little  foot — until,  in  turn,  she  joined  him  too,  blown  by 
the  same  wind  loose  about  the  desert.  True.  Yet  at 
the  same  time  they  would  always  be  together,  always 
somewhere  side  by  side,  continuing  in  the  vast  universe, 
alive.  This  new,  absolute  conviction  was  in  him  now. 
He  remembered  the  curious,  sweet  perfume  in  the  desert, 
as  of  flowers,  where  yet  no  flowers  are.  It  was  the  per- 
fume of  life.  But  in  the  desert  there  is  no  life.  Liv- 
ing things  that  grow  and  move  and  utter,  are  but  a 
protest  against  death.  In  the  deseft  they  are  unnecessary, 
because  death  there  is  not.     Its  overwhelming  vitality 


io6         Day  and  Night  Stories 

needs  no  insolent,  visible  proof,  no  protest,  no  challenge, 
no  little  signs  of  life.  The  message  of  the  desert  is  im- 
mortality. .  .  . 

He  went  finally  to  bed,  just  before  midnight.  Hover- 
ing magnificently  just  outside  his  window.  Death  watched 
him  while  he  slept.  The  wave  c^ept  to  the  level  of  his 
eyes.    He  called  her  name.  .  .  . 

And  downstairs,  meanwhile,  the  girl,  knowing  nothing, 
wondered  where  he  was,  wondered  unhappily  and  rest- 
lessly; more — though  this  she  did  not  understand — 
wondered  motheringly.  Until  to-day,  on  the  ride  home, 
and  from  their  singular  conversation  together,  she  had 
guessed  nothing  of  his  reason  for  being  at  Helouan, 
where  so  many  come  in  order  to  find  life.  She  only  knew 
her  own.    And  she  was  but  twenty-five.  ... 

Then,  in  the  desert,  when  that  touch  of  unearthly  chill 
had  stolen  out  of  the  sand  towards  sunset,  she  had 
realised  clearly,  astonished  she  had  not  seen  it  long  ago, 
that  this  man  loved  her,  yet  that  something  prevented 
his  obeying  the  great  impulse.  In  the  life  of  Paul  Rivers, 
whose  presence  had  profoundly  stirred  her  heart  the  first 
time  she  saw  him,  there  was  some  obstacle  that  held  him 
back,  a  barrier  his  honour  must  respect.  He  could  never 
tell  her  of  his  love.  It  could  lead  to  nothing.  Knowing 
that  he  was  not  married,  her  intuition  failed  her  utterly 
at  first.  Then,  in  their  silence  on  the  homeward  ride, 
the  truth  had  somehow  pressed  up  and  touched  her  with 
its  hand  of  ice.  In  that  disjointed  conversation  at  the 
end,  which  reads  as  it  sounded,  as  though  no  coherent 
meaning  lay  behind  the  words,  and  as  though  both  sought 
to  conceal  by  speech  what  yet  both  burned  to  utter,  she 
had  divined  his  darker  secret,  and  knew  that  it  was  the 
same  as  her  own.  She  understood  then  it  was  Death  that 
had  tracked  them  from  the  desert,  following  with  its 
gigantic  shadow  from  the  sandy  wastes.  The  cold,  the 
darkness,  the  silence  which  cannot  answer,  the  stupendous 


A  Desert  Episode  107 

mystery  which  is  the  spell  of  its  inscrutable  Presence, 
had  risen  about  them  in  the  dusk,  and  kept  them  com- 
pany at  a  little  distance,  until  the  lights  of  Helouan 
had  bade  it  halt.  Life  which  may  not,  cannot  end,  had 
frightened  her. 

His  time,  perhaps,  was  even  shorter  than  her  own. 
None  knew  his  secret,  since  he  was  alone  in  Egypt  and 
was  caring  for  himself.  Similarly,  since  she  bravely 
kept  her  terror  to  herself,  her  mother  had  no  inkling  of 
her  own,  aware  merely  that  the  disease  was  in  her  sys- 
tem and  that  her  orders  were  to  be  extremely  cautious. 
This  couple,  therefore,  shared  secretly  together  the  two 
clearest  glimpses  of  eternity  life  has  to  offer  to  the  soul. 
Side  by  side  they  looked  into  the  splendid  eyes  of  Love 
and  Death.  Life,  moreover,  with  its  instinct  for  simple 
and  terrific  drama,  had  produced  this  majestic  climax, 
breaking  with  pathos,  at  the  very  moment  when  it  could 
not  be  developed — this  side  of  the  stars.  They  stood 
together  upon  the  stage,  a  stage  emptied  of  other  human 
players ;  the  audience  had  gone  home  and  the  lights  were 
being  lowered ;  no  music  sounded ;  the  critics  were  a-bed. 
In  this  great  game  of  Consequences  it  was  known  where 
he  met  her,  what  he  said  and  what  she  answered,  pos- 
sibly what  they  did  and  even  what  the  world  thought. 
But  ''what  the  consequence  was"  would  remain  unknown, 
untold.  That  would  happen  in  the  big  spaces  of  which 
the  desert  in  its  silence,  its  motionless  serenity,  its  shelter- 
less, intolerable  vastness,  is  the  perfect  symbol.  And  the 
desert  gives  no  answer.  It  sounds  no  challenge,  for  it  is 
complete.    Life  in  the  desert  makes  no  sign.    It  is. 


4 

In  the  hotel  that  night  there  arrived  by  chance  a 
famous  International  dancer,  whose  dahabiyeh  lay  an- 
chored at  San  Giovanni,  in  the  Nile  below  Helouan ;  and 
this  woman,  with  her  party,  had  come  to  dine  and  take 


io8  Day  and  Night  Stories 

part  in  the  festivities.  The  news  spread.  After  twelve 
the  lights  were  lowered,  and  while  the  moonlight  flooded 
the  terraces,  streaming  past  pillar  and  colonnade,  she 
rendered  in  the  shadowed  halls  the  music  of  the  Masters, 
interpreting  with  an  instinctive  genius  messages  which 
are  eternal  and  divine. 

Among  the  crowd  of  enthralled  and  delighted  guests, 
the  girl  sat  on  the  steps  and  watched  her.  The  rhythmical 
interpretation  held  a  power  that  seemed,  in  a  sense,  in- 
spired; there  lay  in  it  a  certain  unconscious  something 
that  was  pure,  unearthly ;  something  that  the  stars,  wheel- 
ing in  stately  movements  over  the  sea  and  desert  know ; 
something  the  great  winds  bring  to  mountains  where  they 
play  together;  something  the  forests  capture  and  fix 
magically  into  their  gathering  of  big  and  little  branches. 
It  was  both  passionate  and  spiritual,  wild  and  tender, 
intensely  human  and  seductively  non-human.  For  it  was 
original,  taught  of  Nature,  a  revelation  of  naked,  un- 
hampered life.  It  comforted,  as  the  desert  comforts. 
It  brought  the  desert  awe  into  the  stuffy  corridors  of 
the  hotel,  with  the  moonlight  and  the  whispering  of  stars, 
yet  behind  it  ever  the  silence  of  those  grey,  mysterious, 
interminable  spaces  which  utter  to  themselves  the  word- 
less song  of  life.  For  it  was  the  same  dim  thing,  she 
felt,  that  had  followed  her  from  the  desert  several  hours 
before,  halting  just  outside  the  streets  and  houses  as 
though  blocked  from  further  advance ;  the  thing  that  had 
stopped  her  foolish  painting,  skilled  though  she  was, 
because  it  hides  behind  colour  and  not  in  it;  the  thing 
that  veiled  the  meaning  in  the  cryptic  sentences  she 
and  he  had  stammered  out  together ;  the  thing,  in  a  word, 
as  near  as  she  could  approach  it  by  any  means  of  in- 
terior expression,  that  the  realisation  of  death  for  the 
first  time  makes  comprehensible — Immortality.  It  was 
unutterable,  but  it  was.  He  and  she  were  indissolubly 
together.    Death  was  no  separation.    There  was  no  death. 


A  Desert  Episode  109 

...  It  was  terrible.  It  was — she  had  already  used  the 
word — awfuf,  full  of  awe. 

"In  the  desert,"  thought  whispered,  as  she  watched 
spellbound,  *'it  is  impossible  even  to  conceive  of  death. 
The  idea  is  meaningless.    It  simply  is  not." 

The  music  and  the  movement  filled  the  air  with  Hfe 
which,  being  there,  must  continue  always,  and  con- 
tinuing always  can  have  never  had  a  beginning.  Death, 
therefore,  was  the  great  revealer  of  life.  Without  it  none 
could  realise  that  they  are  alive.  Others  had  discovered 
this  before  her,  but  she  did  not  know  it.  In  the  desert  no 
one  can  realise  death :  it  is  hope  and  life  that  are  the 
only  certainty.  The  entire  conception  of  the  Egyptian 
system  was  based  on  this — the  conviction,  sure  and 
glorious,  of  life's  endless  continuation.  Their  tombs 
and  temples,  their  pyramids  and  sphinxes  surviving  after 
thousands  of  years,  defy  the  passage  of  time  and  laugh 
at  death;  the  very  bodies  of  their  priests  and  kings,  of 
their  animals  even,  their  fish,  their  insects,  stand  to-day 
as  symbols  of  their  stalwart  knowledge. 

And  this  girl,  as  she  listened  to  the  music  and  watched 
the  inspired  dancing,  remembered  it.  The  message 
poured  into  her  from  many  sides,  though  the  desert 
brought  it  clearest.  With  death  peering  into  her  face  a 
few  short  weeks  ahead,  she  thought  instead  of — life. 
The  desert,  as  it  were,  became  for  her  a  little  fragment 
of  eternity,  focused  into  an  intelligible  point  for  her  mind 
to  rest  upon  with  comfort  and  comprehension.  Her 
steady,  thoughtful  nature  stirred  towards  an  objective 
far  beyond  the  small  enclosure  of  one  narrow  lifetime. 
The  scale  of  the  desert  stretched  her  to  the  grandeur 
of  its  own  imperial  meaning,  its  divine  repose,  its  unas- 
sailable and  everlasting  majesty.  She  looked  beyond  the 
wall. 

Eternity !  That  which  is  endless ;  without  pause,  with- 
out beginning,  without  divisions  or  boundaries.  The  flut- 
tering of  her  brave  yet  frightened  spirit  ceased,  aware 


no         Day  and  Night  Stories 

with  awe  of  its  own  everlastingness.  The  swiftest  mo- 
tion produces  the  effect  of  immobihty;  excessive  light 
is  darkness;  size,  run  loose  into  enormity,  is  the  same 
as  the  minutely  tiny.  Similarly,  in  the  desert,  life,  too 
overwhelming  and  terrific  to  know  limit  or  confinement, 
lies  undetailed  and  stupendous,  still  as  deity,  a  revelation 
of  nothingness  because  it  is  all.  Turned  golden  beneath 
its  spell  that  the  music  and  the  rhythm  made  even  more 
comprehensible,  the  soul  in  her,  already  lying  beneath  the 
shadow  of  the  great  wave,  sank  into  rest  and  peace,  too 
certain  of  itself  to  fear.  And  panic  fled  away.  -  *T  am 
immortal  .  .  .  because  I  am.  And  what  I  love  is  not 
apart  from  me.  It  is  myself.  We  are  together  end- 
lessly because  we  are/^ 

Yet  in  reality,  though  the  big  desert  brought  this,  it 
was  Love,  which,  being  of  similar  parentage,  interpreted 
its  vast  meaning  to  her  little  heart — that  sudden  love 
which,  without  a  word  of  preface  or  explanation,  had 
come  to  her  a  short  three  weeks  before.  .  .  .  She  went  up 
to  her  room  soon  after  midnight,  abruptly,  unexpectedly 
stricken.  Some  one,  it  seemed,  had  called  her  name.  She 
passed  his  door. 

The  lights  had  been  turned  up.  The  clamour  of  praise 
was  loud  round  the  figure  of  the  weary  dancer  as  she 
left  in  a  carriage  for  her  dahabiyeh  on  the  Nile.  A  low 
wind  whistled  round  the  walls  of  the  great  hotel,  blow- 
ing chill  and  bitter  between  the  pillars  of  the  colonnades. 
The  girl  heard  the  voices  float  up  to  her  through  the 
night,  and  once  more,  behind  the  confused  sound  of  the 
many,  she  heard  her  own  name  called,  but  more  faintly 
than  before,  and  from  very  far  away.  It  came  through 
the  spaces  beyond  her  open  window ;  it  died  away  again ; 
then — but  for  the  sighing  of  that  bitter  wind — silence, 
the  deep  silence  of  the  desert. 

And  these  two,  Paul  Rivers  and  the  girl,  between  them 
merely  a  floor  of  that  stone  that  built  the  Pyramids, 
lay  a  few  moments  before  the  Wave  of  Sleep  engulfed 


A  Desert  Episode  iii 

them.  And,  while  they  slept,  two  shadowy  forms  hov- 
ered above  the  roof  of  the  quiet  hotel,  melting  presently 
into  one,  as  dreams  stole  down  from  the  desert  and  the 
stars.  Immortality  whispered  to  them.  On  either  side 
rose  Life  and  Death,  towering  in  splendour.  Love, 
joining  their  spreading  wings,  fused  the  gigantic  ouf^ 
lines  into  one.  The  figures  grew  smaller,  comprehensible. 
They  entered  the  little  windows.  Above  the  beds  they 
paused  a  moment,  watching,  waiting,  and  then,  like  a 
wave  that  is  just  about  to  break,  they  stooped.  .  .  . 

And  in  the  brilliant  Egyptian  sunlight  of  the  morning, 
as  she  went  downstairs,  she  passed  his  door  again.  She 
had  awakened,  but  he  slept  on.  He  had  preceded  her. 
It  was  next  day  she  learned  his  room  was  vacant.  .  .  . 
Within  the  month  she  joined  him,  and  within  the  year 
the  cool  north  wind  that  sweetens  Lower  Egypt  from 
the  sea  blew  the  dust  across  the  desert  as  before.  It  is 
the  dust  of  kings,  of  queens,  of  priests,  princesses,  lovers. 
It  is  the  dust  no  earthly  power  can  annihilate.  It,  too, 
lasts  for  ever.  There  was  a  Httle  more  of  it  .  .  .  the 
desert's  message  slightly  added  to :  Immortality. 


VI 

THE  OTHER  WING 


It  used  to  puzzle  him  that,  after  dark,  some  one  would 
look  in  round  the  edge  of  the  bedroom  door,  and  with- 
draw again  too  rapidly  for  him  to  see  the  face.  When 
the  nurse  had  gone  away  with  the  candle  this  hap- 
pened :  "Good  night,  Master  Tim,"  she  said  usually, 
shading  the  light  with  one  hand  to  protect  his  eyes; 
'*dream  of  me  and  I'll  dream  of  you."  She  went  out 
slowly.  The  sharp-edged  shadow  of  the  door  ran  across 
the  ceiling  like  a  train.  There  came  a  whispered  colloquy 
in  the  corridor  outside,  about  himself,  of  course,  and — he 
was  alone.  He  heard  her  steps  going  deeper  and  deeper 
into  the  bosom  of  the  old  country  house;  they  were 
audible  for  a  moment  on  the  stone  flooring  of  the  hall; 
and  sometimes  the  dull  thump  of  the  baize  door  into  the 
servants'  quarters  just  reached  him,  too — then  silence. 
But  it  was  only  when  the  last  sound,  as  well  as  the  last 
sign  of  her  had  vanished,  that  the  face  emerged  from 
its  hiding-place  and  flashed  in  upon  him  round  the  corner. 
As  a  rule,  too,  it  came  just  as  he  was  saying,  ''Now  I'll 
go  to  sleep.  I  won't  think  any  longer.  Good  night, 
Master  Tim,  and  happy  dreams."  He  loved  to  say  this 
to  himself;  it  brought  a  sense  of  companionship,  as 
though  there  were  two  persons  speaking. 

The  room  was  on  the  top  of  the  old  house,  a  big,  high- 
ceilinged  room,  and  his  bed  against  the  wall  had  an  iron 
railing  round  it;  he  felt  very  safe  and  protected  in  it. 
The  curtains  at  the  other  end  of  the  room  were  drawn. 
He  lay  watching  the  firelight  dancing  on  the  heavy  folds, 

112 


The  Other  Wing  113 

and  their  pattern,  showing  a  spaniel  chasing  a  long- 
tailed  bird  towards  a  bushy  tree,  interested  and  amused 
him.  It  was  repeated  over  and  over  again.  He  counted 
the  number  of  dogs,  and  the  number  of  birds,  and  the 
number  of  trees,  but  could  never  make  them  agree.  There 
was  a  plan  somewhere  in  that  pattern;  if  only  he  could 
discover  it,  the  dogs  and  birds  and  trees  would  "come 
out  right."  Hundreds  and  hundreds  of  times  he  had 
played  this  game,  for  the  plan  in  the  pattern  made  it 
possible  to  take  sides,  and  the  bird  and  dog  were  against 
him.  They  always  won,  however ;  Tim  usually  fell  asleep 
just  when  the  advantage  was  on  his  own  side.  The  cur- 
tains hung  steadily  enough  most  of  the  time,  but  it 
seemed  to  him  once  or  twice  that  they  stirred — hiding  a 
dog  or  bird  on  purpose  to  prevent  his  winning.  For  in- 
stance, he  had  eleven  birds  and  eleven  trees,  and,  fixing 
them  in  his  mind  by  saying,  "that's  eleven  birds  and 
eleven  trees,  but  only  ten  dogs,"  his  eyes  darted  back 
to  find  the  eleventh  dog,  when — the  curtain  moved  and 
threw  all  his  calculations  into  confusion  again.  The 
eleventh  dog  was  hidden.  He  did  not  quite  like  the 
movement ;  it  gave  him  questionable  feelings,  rather,  for 
the  curtain  did  not  move  of  itself.  Yet,  usually,  he  was 
too  intent  upon  counting  the  dogs  to  feel  positive  alarm. 
Opposite  to  him  was  the  fireplace,  full  of  red  and 
yellow  coals;  and,  lying  with  his  head  sideways  on  the 
pillow,  he  could  see  directly  in  between  the  bars.  When 
the  coals  settled  with  a  soft  and  powdery  crash,  he  turned 
his  eyes  from  the  curtains  to  the  grate,  trying  to  dis- 
cover exactly  which  bits  had  fallen.  So  long  as  tHe 
glow  was  there  the  sound  seemed  pleasant  enough,  but 
sometimes  he  awoke  later  in  the  night,  the  room  huge  with 
darkness,  the  fire  almost  out — and  the  sound  was  not  so 
pleasant  then.  It  startled  him.  The  coals  did  not  fall 
of  themselves.  It  seemed  that  some  one  poked  them 
cautiously.  The  shadows  were  very  thick  before  the  bars. 
As  with  the  curtains,  moreover,  the  morning  aspect  of 


114         Day  and  Night  Stories 

the  extinguished  fire,  the  ice-cold  cinders  that  made  a 
clinking  sound  like  tin,  caused  no  emotion  whatever  in 
his  soul. 

And  it  was  usually  while  he  lay  waiting  for  sleep,  tired 
both  of  the  curtain  and  the  coal  games,  on  the  point,  in- 
deed, of  saying,  "I'll  go  to  sleep  now,"  that  the  puzzling 
thing  took  place.  He  would  be  staring  drowsily  at  the 
dying  fire,  perhaps  counting  the  stockings  and  flannel 
garments  that  hung  along  the  high  fender-rail  when,  sud- 
denly, a  person  looked  in  with  lightning  swiftness  through 
the  door  and  vanished  again  before  he  could  possibly 
turn  his  head  to  see.  The  appearance  and  disappearance 
were  accomplished  with  amazing  rapidity  always. 

It  was  a  head  and  shoulders  that  looked  in,  and  the 
movement  combined  the  speed,  the  lightness  and  the 
silence  of  a  shadow.  Only  it  was  not  a  shadow.  A  hand 
held  the  edge  of  the  door.  The  face  shot  round,  saw  him, 
and  withdrew  like  lightning.  It  was  utterly  beyond  him 
to  imagine  anything  more  quick  and  clever.  It  darted. 
He  heard  no  sound.  It  went.  But — it  had  seen  him, 
looked  him  all  over,  examined  him,  noted  what  he  was 
doing  with  that  lightning  glance.  It  wanted  to  know  if 
he  were  awake  still,  or  asleep.  And  though  it  went  off, 
it  still  watched  him  from  a  distance;  it  waited  some- 
where ;  it  knew  all  about  him.  Where  it  waited  no  one 
could  ever  guess.  It  came  probably,  he  felt,  from  beyond 
the  house,  possibly  from  the  roof,  but  most  likely  from 
the  garden  or  the  sky.  Yet,  though  strange,  it  was  not 
terrible.  It  was  a  kindly  and  protective  figure,  he  felt. 
And  when  it  happened  he  never  called  for  help,  because 
the  occurrence  simply  took  his  voice  away. 

"It  comes  from  the  Nightmare  Passage,"  he  decided; 
"but  it's  not  a.  nightmare."    It  puzzled  him. 

Sometimes,  moreover,  it  came  more  than  once  in  a 
single  night.  He  was  pretty  sure — not  quite  positive — 
that  it  occupied  his  room  as  soon  as  he  was  properly 
asleep.     It  took  possession,  sitting  perhaps  before  the 


The  Other  Wing  115 

dying  fire,  standing  upright  behind  the  heavy  curtains, 
or  even  lying  down  in  the  empty  bed  his  brother  used 
when  he  was  home  from  school.  Perhaps  it  played 
the  curtain  game,  perhaps  it  poked  the  coals;  it  knew, 
at  any  rate,  where  the  eleventh  dog  had  lain  concealed. 
It  certainly  came  in  and  out;  certainly,  too,  it  did  not 
wish  to  be  seen.  For,  more  than  once,  on  waking  sud- 
denly in  the  midnight  blackness,  Tim  knew  it  was  stand- 
ing close  beside  his  bed  and  bending  over  him.  He  felt, 
rather  than  heard,  its  presence.  It  glided  quietly  away. 
It  moved  with  marvellous  softness,  yet  he  was  positive 
it  moved.  He  felt  the  difference,  so  to  speak.  It  had 
been  near  him,  now  it  was  gone.  It  came  back,  too — 
just  as  he  was  falling  into  sleep  again.  Its  midnight 
coming  and  going,  however,  stood  out  sharply  different 
from  its  first  shy,  tentative  approach.  For  in  the  fire- 
light it  came  alone ;  whereas  in  the  black  and  silent  hours, 
it  had  with  it — others. 

And  it  was  then  he  made  up  his  mind  that  its  swift 
and  quiet  movements  were  due  to  the  fact  that  it  had 
wings.  It  flew.  And  the  others  that  came  with  it  in  the 
darkness  were  "its  little  ones."  He  also  made  up  his 
mind  that  all  were  friendly,  comforting,  protective,  and 
that  while  positively  not  a  Nightmare,  it  yet  came  some- 
how along  the  Nightmare  Passage  before  it  reached 
him.  "You  see,  it's  like  this,"  he  explained  to  the  nurse : 
"The  big  one  comes  to  visit  me  alone,  but  it  only  brings 
its  little  ones  when  I'm  quite  asleep." 

"Then  the  quicker  you  get  to  sleep  the  better,  isn't 
it,  Master  Tim?" 

He  replied:  "Rather!  I  always  do.  Only  I  wonder 
where  they  come  from!"  He  spoke,  however,  as  though 
he  had  an  inkling. 

But  the  nurse  was  so  dull  about  it  that  he  gave  her 
up  arid  tried  his  father.  "Of  course,"  replied  this  busy 
but  affectionate  parent)  "it's  either  nobody  at  all,  or  else 
it's   Sleep  coming  to  carry  you  away  to  the   land  of 


ii6         Day  and  Night  Stories 

dreams."  He  made  the  statement  kindly  but  somewhat 
briskly,  for  he  was  worried  just  then  about  the  extra 
taxes  on  his  land,  and  the  effort  to  fix  his  mind  on  Tim's 
fanciful  world  was  beyond  him  at  the  moment.  He  lifted 
the  boy  on  to  his  knee,  kissed  and  patted  him  as  though 
he  were  a  favourite  dog,  and  planted  him  on  the  rug 
again  with  a  flying  sweep.  "Run  and  ask  your  mother," 
he  added ;  **she  knows  all  that  kind  of  thing.  Then  come 
back  and  tell  me  all  about  it — another  time." 

Tim  found  his  mother  in  an  arm-chair  before  the  fire 
of  another  room;  she  was  knitting  and  reading  at  the 
same  time — a  wonderful  thing  the  boy  could  never  under- 
stand. She  raised  her  head  as  he  came  in,  pushed  her 
glasses  on  to  her  forehead,  and  held  her  arms  out.  He 
told  her  everything,  ending  up  with  what  his  father  said. 

**You  see,  it's  not  Jackman,  or  Thompson,  or  any  one 
like  that,"  he  exclaimed.    'Tt's  some  one  real." 

"But  nice,"  she  assured  him,  "some  one  who  comes 
to  take  care  of  you  and  see  that  you're  all  safe  and 
cosy." 

"Oh,  yes,  I  know  that.     But — -" 

"I  think  your  father's  right,"  she  added  quickly.  "It's 
Sleep,  I'm  sure,  who  pops  in  round  the  door  like  that. 
Sleep  has  got  wings,  I've  always  heard." 

"Then  the  other  thing — the  little  ones?"  he  asked. 
"Are  they  just  sorts  of  dozes,  you  think?" 

Mother  did  not  answer  for  a  moment.  She  turned 
down  the  page  of  her  book,  closed  it  slowly,  put  it  on 
the  table  beside  her.  More  slowly  still  she  put  her 
knitting  away,  arranging  the  wool  and  needles  with  some 
deliberation. 

"Perhaps,"  she  said,  drawing  the  boy  closer  to  her 
and  looking  into  his  big  eyes  of  wonder,  "they're 
dreams !" 

Tim  felt  a  thrill  run  through  him  as  she  said  it.  He 
stepped  back  a  foot  or  so  and  clapped  his  hands  softly. 


The  Other  Wing  117 

"Dreams!"  he  whispered  with  enthusiasm  and  belief; 
"of  course !     I  never  thought  of  that." 

His  mother,  having  proved  her  sagacity,  then  made  a 
mistake.  She  noted  her  success,  but  instead  of  leaving 
it  there,  she  elaborated  and  explained.  As  Tim  expressed 
it  she  "went  on  about  it."  Therefore  he  did  not  listen. 
He  followed  his  train  of  thought  alone.  And  presently, 
he  interrupted  her  long  sentences  with  a  conclusion  of 
his  own : 

"Then  I  know  where  She  hides,"  he  announced  with 
a  touch  of  awe.  "Where  She  lives,  I  mean."  And  with- 
out waiting  to  be  asked,  he  imparted  the  information : 
"It's  in  the  Other  Wing." 

"Ah!"  said  his  mother,  taken  by  surprise.  "How 
clever  of  you,  Tim!" — and  thus  confirmed  it. 

Thenceforward  this  was  established  in  his  life — that 
Sleep  and  her  attendant  Dreams  hid  during  the  daytime 
in  that  unused  portion  of  the  great  Elizabethan  mansion 
called  the  Other  Wing.  This  other  wing  was  unoccupied, 
its  corridors  untrodden,  its  windows  shuttered  and  its 
rooms  all  closed.  At  various  places  green  baize  doors 
led  into  it,  but  no  one  ever  opened  them.  For  many 
years  this  part  had  been  shut  up;  and  for  the  children, 
properly  speaking,  it  was  out  of  bounds.  They  never 
mentioned  it  as  a  possible  place,  at  any  rate ;  in  hide-and- 
seek  it  was  not  considered,  even ;  there  was  a  hint  of 
the  inaccessible  about  the  Other  Wing.  Shadows,  dust, 
and  silence  had  it  to  themselves. 

But  Tim,  having  ideas  of  his  own  about  everything, 
possessed  special  information  about  the  Other  Wing. 
He  believed  it  was  inhabited.  Who  occupied  the  immense 
series  of  empty  rooms,  who  trod  the  spacious  corridors, 
who  passed  to  and  fro  behind  the  shuttered  windows, 
he  had  not  known  exactly.  He  had  called  these  occu- 
pants "they,"  and  the  most  important  among  them  was 
"The  Ruler."    The  Ruler  of  the  Other  Wing  was  a  kind 


Ii8         Day  and  Night  Stories  ^ 

of  deity,  powerful,   far  away,   ever  present  yet  never 
seen. 

And  about  this  Ruler  he  had  a  wonderful  conception 
for  a  little  boy;  he  connected  her,  somehow,  with  deep 
thoughts  of  his  own,  the  deepest  of  all.  When  he  made 
up  adventures  to  the  moon,  to  the  stars,  or  to  the  bot- 
tom of  the  sea,  adventures  that  he  lived  inside  himself, 
as  it  were — to  reach  them  he  must  invariably  pass 
through  the  chambers  of  the  Other  Wing.  Those  corri- 
dors and  halls,  the  Nightmare  Passage  among  them,  lay 
along  the  route;  they  were  the  first  stage  of  the  journey. 
Once  the  green  baize  doors  swung  to  behind  him  and  the 
long  dim  passage  stretched  ahead,  he  was  well  on  his 
way  into  the  adventure  of  the  moment;  the  Nightmare 
Passage  once  passed,  he  was  safe  from  capture ;  but 
once  the  shutters  of  a  window  had  been  flung  open,  he 
was  free  of  the  gigantic  world  that  lay  beyond.  For 
then  light  poured  in  and  he  could  see  his  w^ay. 

The  conception,  for  a  child,  was  curious.  It  estab- 
lished a  correspondence  between  the  mysterious  chambers 
of  the  Other  Wing  and  the  occupied,  but  unguessed 
chambers  of  his  Inner  Being.  Through  these  chambers, 
through  these  darkened  corridors,  along  a  passage,  some- 
times dangerous,  or  at  least  of  questionable  repute,  he 
must  pass  to  find  all  adventures  that  were  real.  The 
light — when  he  pierced  far  enough  to  take  the  shutters 
down — was  discovery.  Tim  did  not  actually  think,  much 
less  say,  all  this.  He  was  aware  of  it,  however.  He 
felt  it.  The  Other  Wing  was  inside  himself  as  well 
as  through  the  green  baize  doors.  His  inner  map  of 
wonder  included  both  of  them. 

But  now,  for  the  first  time  in  his  life,  he  knew  who 
lived  there  and  who  the  Ruler  was.  A  shutter  had 
fallen  of  its  own  accord;  light  poured  in;  he  made  a 
guess,  and  Mother  had  confirmed  it.  Sleep  and  her 
Little  Ones,  the  host  of  dreams,  were  the  daylight  occu- 
pants.   They  stole  out  when  the  darkness  fell.    All  ad- 


The  Other  Wing  119 

ventures  in  life  began  and  ended  by  a  dream — discover- 
able by  first  passing  through  the  Other  Wing. 


And,  having  settled  this,  his  one  desire  now  was  to 
travel  over  the  map  upon  journeys  of  exploration  and 
discovery.  The  map  inside  himself  he  knew  already,  but 
the  map  of  the  Other  Wing  he  had  not  seen.  His  mind 
knew  it,  he  had  a  clear  mental  picture  of  rooms  and 
halls  and  passages,  but  his  feet  had  never  trod  the  silent 
floors  where  dust  and  shadows  hid  the  flock  of  dreams 
by  day.  The  mighty  chambers  where  Sleep  ruled  he 
longed  to  stand  in,  to  see  the  Ruler  face  to  face.  He 
made  up  his  mind  to  get  into  the  Other  Wing. 

To  accomplish  this  was  difficult;  but  Tim  was  a  de- 
termined youngster,  and  he  meant  to  try ;  he  meant,  also, 
to  succeed.  He  deliberated.  At  night  he  could  not  pos- 
sibly manage  it;  in  any  case,  the  Ruler  and  her  host  all 
left  it  after  dark,  to  fly  about  the  world ;  the  Wing  would 
be  empty,  and  the  emptiness  would  frighten  him.  There- 
fore he  must  make  a  daylight  visit ;  and  it  was  a  daylight 
visit  he  decided  on.  He  deliberated  more.  There  were 
rules  and  risks  involved :  it  meant  going  out  of  bounds, 
the  danger  of  being  seen,  the  certainty  of  being  ques- 
tioned by  some  idle  and  inquisitive  grown-up:  "Where 
in  the  world  have  you  been  all  this  time" — and  so  forth. 
These  things  he. thought  out  carefully,  and  though  he 
arrived  at  no  solution,  he  felt  satisfied  that  it  would  be 
all  right.  That  is,  he  recognised  the  risks.  To  be  pre- 
pared was  half  the  battle,  for  nothing  then  could  take 
him  by  surprise. 

The  notion  that  he  might  slip  in  from  the  garden  was 
soon  abandoned;  the  red  bricks  showed  no  openings; 
there  was  no  door;  from  the  courtyard,  also,  entrance 
was  impracticable;  even  on  tiptoe  he  could  barely  reach 
the  broad  window-sills  of  stone.    When  playing  alone,  or 


120         Day  and  Night  Stories 

walking  with  the  French  governess,  he  examined  every 
outside  possibility.  None  offered.  The  shutters,  sup- 
posing he  could  reach  them,  were  thick  and  solid. 

Meanwhile,  when  opportunity  offered,  he  stood  against 
the  outside  walls  and  listened,  his  ear  pressed  against  the 
tight  red  bricks ;  the  towers  and  gables  of  the  Wing  rose 
overhead;  he  heard  the  wind  go  whispering  along  the 
eaves ;  he  imagined  tiptoe  movements  and  a  sound  of 
wings  inside.  Sleep  and  her  Little  Ones  were  busily 
preparing  for  their  journeys  after  dark;  they  hid,  but 
they  did  not  sleep;  in  this  unused  Wing,  vaster  alone 
than  any  other  country  house  he  had  ever  seen,  Sleep 
taught  and  trained  her  flock  of  feathered  Dreams.  It 
was  very  wonderful.  They  probably  supplied  the  entire 
county.  But  more  wonderful  still  was  the  thought  that 
the  Ruler  herself  should  take  the  trouble  to  come  to  his 
particular  room  and  personally  watch  over  him  all  night 
long.  That  was  amazing.  And  it  flashed  across  his 
imaginative,  inquiring  mind:  ''Perhaps  they  take  me 
with  them!  The  moment  I'm  asleep!  That's  why  she 
comes  to  see  me !" 

Yet  his  chief  preoccupation  was,  how  Sleep  got  out. 
Through  the  green  baize  doors,  of  course !  By  a  process 
of  elimination  he  arrived  at  a  conclusion:  he,  too,  must 
enter  through  a  green  baize  door  and  risk  detection. 

Of  late,  the  lightning  visits  had  ceased.  The  silent, 
darting  figure  had  not  peeped  in  and  vanished  as  it  used 
to  do.  He  fell  asleep  too  quickly  now,  almost  before 
Jackman  reached  the  hall,  and  long  before  the  fire  began 
to  die.  Also,  the  dogs  and  birds  upon  the  curtains  always 
matched  the  trees  exactly,  and  he  won  the  curtain  game 
quite  easily;  there  was  never  a  dog  or  bird  too  many; 
the  curtain  never  stirred.  It  had  been  thus  ever  since 
his  talk  \vith  Mother  and  Father.  And  so  he  came  to 
make  a  second  discovery:  His  parents  did  not  really 
believe  in  his  Figure.  She  kept  away  on  that  account. 
They  doubted  her ;  she  hid.    Here  was  still  another  incen- 


The  Other  Wing  121 

live  to  go  and  find  her  out.  He  ached  for  her,  she  was 
so  kind,  she  gave  herself  so  much  trouble — ^just  for  his 
little  self  in  the  big  and  lonely  bedroom.  Yet  his  par- 
ents spoke  of  her  as  though  she  were  of  no  account.  He 
longed  to  see  her,  face  to  face,  and  tell  her  that  he 
believed  in  her  and  loved  her.  For  he  was  positive  she 
would  like  to  hear  it.  She  cared.  Though  he  had  fallen 
asleep  of  late  too  quickly  for  him  to  see  her  flash  in  at 
the  door,  he  had  known  nicer  dreams  than  ever  in  his 
life  before — travelling  dreams.  And  it  was  she  who  sent 
them.    More — he  was  sure  she  took  him  out  with  her. 

One  evening,  in  the  dusk  of  a  March  day,  his  oppor- 
tunity came;  and  only  just  in  time,  for  his  brother  Jack 
was  expected  home  from  school  on  the  morrow,  and  with 
Jack  in  the  other  bed,  no  Figure  would  ever  care  to  show 
itself.  Also  it  was  Easter,  and  after  Easter,  though  Tim 
was  not  aware  of  it  at  the  time,  he  was  to  say  good-bye 
finally  to  governesses  and  become  a  day-boarder  at  a  pre- 
paratory school  for  Wellington.  The  opportunity  offered 
itself  so  naturally,  moreover,  that  Tim  took  it  without 
hesitation.  It  never  occurred  to  him  to  question,  much 
less  to  refuse  it.  The  thing  was  obviously  meant  to  be. 
For  he  found  himself  unexpectedly  in  front  of  a  green 
baize  door;  and  the  green  baize  door  was — swinging! 
Somebody,  therefore,  had  just  passed  through  it. 

It  had  come  about  in  this  wise.  Father,  away  in  Scot- 
land, at  Inglemuir,  the  shooting  place,  was  expected  back 
next  morning;  Mother  had  driven  over  to  the  church 
upon  some  Easter  business  or  other;  and  the  governess 
had  been  allowed  her  holiday  at  home  in  France.  Tim, 
therefore,  had  the  run  of  the  house,  and  in  the  hour  be- 
tween tea  and  bed-time  he  made  good  use  of  it.  Fully 
able  to  defy  such  second-rate  obstacles  as  nurses  and 
butlers,  he  explored  all  manner  of  forbidden,  places  with 
ardent  thoroughness,  arriving  finally  in  the  sacred  pre- 
cincts of  his  father's  study.  This  wonderful  room  was 
the  very  heart  and  centre  of  the  whole  big  house ;  he  had 


122         Day  and  Night  Stories  ) 

been  birched  here  long  ago ;  here,  too,  his  father  had  told 
him  with  a  grave  yet  smiling  face:  "You've  got  a  new 
companion,  Tim,  a  little  sister;  you  must  be  very  kind 
to  her."  Also,  it  was  the  place  where  all  the  money  was 
kept.  What  he  called  '^father's  jolly  smell"  was  strong 
in  it — papers,  tobacco,  books,  flavoured  by  hunting  crops 
and  gunpowder. 

At  first  he  felt  awed,  standing  motionless  just  inside 
the  door;  but  presently,  recovering  equilibrium,  he 
moved  cautiously  on  tiptoe  towards  the  gigantic  desk 
where  important  papers  were  piled  in  untidy  patches. 
These  he  did  not  touch;  but  beside  them  his  quick  eye 
noted  the  jagged  piece  of  iron  shell  his  father  brought 
home  from  his  Crimean  campaign  and  now  used  as  a 
letter-weight.  It  was  difficult  to  lift,  however.  He 
climbed  into  the  comfortable  chair  and  swung  round  and 
round.  It  was  a  swivel-chair,  and  he  sank  down  among 
the  cushions  in  it,  staring  at  the  strange  things  on  the 
great  desk  before  him,  as  if  fascinated.  Next  he  turned 
away  and  saw  the  stick-rack  in  the  corner — this,  he 
knew,  he  was  allowed  to  touch.  He  had  played  with 
these  sticks  before.  There  were  twenty,  perhaps,  all  told, 
with  curious  carved  handles,  brought  from  every  corner 
of  the  world ;  many  of  them  cut  by  his  father's  own  hand 
in  queer  and  distant  places.  And,  among  them,  Tim 
fixed  his  eye  upon  a  cane  with  an  ivory  handle,  a  slender, 
polished  cane  that  he  had  always  coveted  tremendously. 
It  was  the  kind  he  meant  to  use  when  he  was  a  man.  It 
bent,  it  quivered,  and  when  he  swished  it  through  the  air 
it  trembled  like  a  riding-whip,  and  made  a  whistling 
noise.  Yet  it  was  very  strong  in  spite  of  its  elastic 
qualities.  A  family  treasure,  it  was  also  an  old-fashioned 
relic ;  it  had  been  his  grandfather's  walking  stick.  Some- 
thing of  another  century  clung  visibly  about  it  still.  It 
had  dignity  and  grace  and  leisure  in  its  very  aspect.  And 
it  suddenly  occurred  to  him:  "How  grandpapa  must 
miss  it !    Wouldn't  he  just  love  to  have  it  back  again !" 


The  Other  Wing  123 

How  it  happened  exactly,  Tim  did  not  know,  but  a 
few  minutes  later  he  found  himself  walking  about  the 
deserted  halls  and  passages  of  the  house  with  the  air  of 
an  elderly  gentleman  of  a  hundred  years  ago,  proud  as  a 
courtier,  flourishing  the  stick  like  an  Eighteenth  Century 
dandy  in  the  Mall.  That  the  cane  reached  to  his  shoulder 
made  no  difference;  he  held  it  accordingly,  swaggering 
on  his  way.  He  was  off  upon  an  adventure.  He  dived 
down  through  the  byways  of  the  Other  Wing,  inside  him- 
self, as  though  the  stick  transported  him  to  the  days  of 
the  old  gentleman  who  had  used  it  in  another  century. 

It  may  seem  strange  to  those  who  dwell  in  smaller 
houses,  but  in  this  rambling  Elizabethan  mansion  there 
were  whole  sections  that,  even  to  Tim,  were  strange  and 
unfamiliar.  In  his  mind  the  map  of  the  Other  Wing 
was  clearer  by  far  than  the  geography  of  the  part  he 
travelled  daily.  He  came  to  passages  and  dim-lit  halls, 
long  corridors  of  stone  beyond  the  Picture  Gallery ;  nar- 
row, wainscoted  connecting-channels  with  four  steps 
down  and  a  little  later  two  steps  up;  deserted  chambers 
with  arches  guarding  them — all  hung  with  the  soft 
March  twilight  and  all  bewilderingly  unrecognised.  With 
a  sense  of  adventure  born  of  naughtiness  he  went  care- 
lessly along,  farther  and  farther  into  the  heart  of  this 
unfamiliar  country,  swinging  the  cane,  one  thumb  stuck 
into  the  arm-pit  of  his  blue  serge  suit,  whistling  softly 
to  himself,  excited  yet  keenly  on  the  alert — and  suddenly 
found  himself  opposite  a  door  that  checked  all  further 
advance.  It  was  a  green  baize  door.  And  it  was  swing- 
ing. 

He  stopped  abruptly,  facing  it.  He  stared,  he  gripped 
his  cane  more  tightly,  he  held  his  breath.  "The  Other 
Wing!"  he  gasped  in  a  swallowed  whisper.  It  was  an 
entrance,  but  an  entrance  he  had  never  seen  before.  He 
thought  he  knew  every  door  by  heart;  but  this  one  was 
new.  He  stood  motionless  for  several  minutes,  watching 
it ;  the  door  had  two  halves,  but  one  half  only  was  swing- 


124         Day  and  Night  Stories  . 

ing,  each  swing  shorter  than  the  one  before;  he  heard 
the  little  puffs  of  air  it  made;  it  settled  finally,  the  last 
movements  very  short  and  rapid;  it  stopped.  And  the 
boy's  heart,  after  similar  rapid  strokes,  stopped  also — 
for  a  moment. 

"Some  one's  just  gone  through,"  he  gulped.  And 
even  as  he  said  it  he  knew  who  the  some  one  was.  The 
conviction  just  dropped  into  him.  "It's  Grandfather;  he 
knows  I've  got  his  stick.  He  wants  it!"  On  the  heels 
of  this  flashed  instantly  another  amazing  certainty.  "He 
sleeps  in  there.  He's  having  dreams.  That's  what  being 
dead  means." 

His  first  impulse,  then,  took  the  form  of,  "I  must  let 
Father  know;  it'll  make  him  burst  for  joy";  but  his 
second  was  for  himself — to  finish  his  adventure.  And 
it  was  this,  naturally  enough,  that  gained  the  day.  He 
could  tell  his  father  later.  His  first  duty  was  plainly  to 
go  through  the  door  into  the  Other  Wing.  He  must  give 
the  stick  back  to  its  owner.    He  must  hand  it  back. 

The  test  of  will  and  character  came  now.  Tim  had 
imagination,  and  so  knew  the  meaning  of  fear ;  but  there 
was  nothing  craven  in  him.  He  could  howl  and  scream 
and  stamp  like  any  other  person  of  his  age  when  the  occa- 
sion called  for  such  behaviour,  but  such  occasions  were 
due  to  temper  roused  by  a  thwarted  will,  and  the  his- 
trionics were  half  "pretended"  to  produce  a  calculated 
effect.  There  was  no  one  to  thwart  his  will  at  present. 
He  also  knew  how  to  be  afraid  of  Nothing,  to  be  afraid 
without  ostensible  cause,  that  is — which  was  merely 
"nerves."  He  could  have  "the  shudders"  with  the  best 
of  them. 

But,  when  a  real  thing  faced  him,  Tim's  character 
emerged  to  meet  it.  He  would  clench  his  hands,  brace 
his  muscles,  set  his  teeth — and  wish  to  heaven  he  was 
bigger.  But  he  would  not  flinch.  Being  imaginative,  he 
lived  the  worst  a  dozen  times  before  it  happened,  yet  in 
the  final  crash  he  stood  up  like  a  man.     He  had  that 


The  Other  Wing  125 

highest  pluck — the  courage  of  a  sensitive  temperament. 
And  at  this  particular  juncture,  somewhat  ticklish  for  a 
boy  of  eight  or  nine,  it  did  not  fail  him.  He  lifted  the 
cane  and  pushed  the  swinging  door  wide  open.  Then  he 
walked  through  it — into  the  Other  Wing. 


The  green  baize  door  swung  to  behind  him;  he  was 
even  sufficiently  master  of  himself  to  turn  and  close  it 
with  a  steady  hand,  because  he  did  not  care  to  hear  the 
series  of  muffled  thuds  its  lessening  swings  would  cause. 
But  he  realised  clearly  his  position,  knew  he  was  doing  a 
tremendous  thing. 

Holding  the  cane  between  fingers  very  tightly  clenched, 
he  advanced  bravely  along  the  corridor  that  stretched  be- 
fore him.  And  all  fear  left  him  from  that  moment, 
replaced,  it  seemed,  by  a  mild  and  exquisite  surprise. 
His  footsteps  made  no  sound,  he  walked  on  air ;  instead 
of  darkness,  or  the  twilight  he  expected,  a  diffused  and 
gentle  light  that  seemed  like  the  silver  on  the  lawn  when 
a  half-moon  sails  a  cloudless  sky,  lay  everywhere.  He 
knew  his  way,  moreover,  knew  exactly  where  he  was  and 
whither  he  was  going.  The  corridor  was  as  familiar  to 
him  as  the  floor  of  his  own  bedroom;  he  recognised  the 
shape  and  length  of  it;  it  agreed  exactly  with  the  map 
he  had  constructed  long  ago.  Though  he  had  never,  to 
the  best  of  his  knowledge,  entered  it  before,  he  knew 
with  intimacy  its  every  detail. 

And  thus  the  surprise  he  felt  was  mild  and  far  from 
disconcerting.  "I'm  here  again !"  was  the  kind  of  thought 
he  had.  It  was  how  he  got  here  that  caused  the  faint 
surprise,  apparently.  He  no  longer  swaggered,  however, 
but  walked  carefully,  and  half  on  tiptoe,  holding  the 
ivory  handle  of  the  cane  with  a  kind  of  affectionate  re- 
spect. And  as  he  advanced,  the  light  closed  softly  up 
behind  him,  obliterating  the  way  by  which  he  had  come. 


126         Day  and  Night  Stories 

But  this  he  did  not  know,  because  he  did  not  look  behind 
him.  He  only  looked  in  front,  where  the  corridor 
stretched  its  silvery  length  towards  the  great  chamber 
where  he  knew  the  cane  must  be  surrendered.  The  per-"" 
son  who  had  preceded  him  down  this  ancient  corridor, 
passing  through  the  green  baize  door  just  before  he 
reached  it,  this  person,  his  father's  father,  now  stood  in 
that  great  chamber,  waiting  to  receive  his  own.  Tim 
knew  it  as  surely  as  he  knew  he  breathed.  At  the  far 
end  he  even  made  out  the  larger  patch  of  silvery  light 
which  marked  its  gaping  doorway. 

There  was  another  thing  he  knew  as  well — that  this 
corridor  he  moved  along  between  rooms  with  fast-closed 
doors,  was  the  Nightmare  Corridor;  often  and  often  he 
had  traversed  it;  each  room  was  occupied.  "This  is  the 
Nightmare  Passage,"  he  whispered  to  himself,  "but  I 
know  the  Ruler — it  doesn't  matter.  None  of  them  can 
get  out  or  do  anything."  He  heard  them,  none  the  less, 
inside,  as  he  passed  by;  he  heard  them  scratching  to  get 
out.  The  feeling  of  security  made  him  reckless ;  he  took 
unnecessary  risks;  he  brushed  the  panels  as  he  passed. 
And  the  love  of  keen  sensation  for  its  own  sake,  the 
desire  to  feel  "an  awful  thrill,"  tempted  him  once  so 
sharply  that  he  raised  his  stick  and  poked  a  fast-shut 
door  with  it! 

He  was  not  prepared  for  the  result,  but  he  gained  the 
sensation  and  the  thrill.  For  the  door  opened  with  in- 
stant swiftness  half  an  inch,  a  hand  emerged,  caught  the 
stick  and  tried  to  draw  it  in.  Tim  sprang  back  as  if  he 
had  been  struck.  He  pulled  at  the  ivory  handle  with  all 
his  strength,  but  his  strength  was  less  than  nothing.  He 
tried  to  shout,  but  his  voice  had  gone.  A  terror  of  the 
moon  came  over  him,  for  he  was  unable  to  loosen  his 
hold  of  the  handle;  his  fingers  had  become  a  part  of  it. 
An  appalling  weakness  turned  him  helpless.  He  was 
dragged  inch  by  inch  towards  the  fearful  door.  The  end 
of  the  stick  was  already  through  the  narrow,  crack.    He 


The  Other  Wing  127 

could  not  see  the  hand  that  pulled,  but  he  knew  it  was 
terrific.  He  understood  now  why  the  world  was  strange, 
why  horses  galloped  furiously,  and  why  trains  whistled 
as  they  raced  through  stations.  All  the  comedy  and  terror 
of  nightmare  gripped  his  heart  with  pincers  made  of  ice. 
The  disproportion  was  abominable.  The  final  collapse 
rushed  over  him  when,  without  a  sign  of  warning,  the 
door  slammed  silently,  and  between  the  jamb  and  the 
wall  the  cane  was  crushed  as  flat  as  if  it  were  a  bulrush. 
So  irresistible  was  the  force  behind  the  door  that  the 
solid  stick  just  went  flat  as  a  stalk  of  a  bulrush. 

He  looked  at  it.    It  was  a  bulrush. 

He  did  not  laugh;  the  absurdity  was  so  distressingly 
unnatural.  The  horror  of  finding  a  bulrush  where  he 
had  expected  a  polished  cane — this  hideous  and  appalling 
detail  held  the  nameless  horror  of  the  nightmare.  It  be- 
trayed him  utterly.  Why  had  he  not  always  known  really 
that  the  stick  was  not  a  stick,  but  a  thin  and  hollow 
reed  .  .  .  ? 

Then  the  cane  was  safely  in  his  hand,  unbroken.  He 
stood  looking  at  it.  The  Nightmare  was  in  full  swing. 
He  heard  another  door  opening  behind  his  back,  a  door 
he  had  not  touched.  There  was  just  time  to  see  a  hand 
thrusting  and  waving  dreadfully,  familiarly,  at  him 
through  the  narrow  crack — just  time  to  realise  that  this 
was  another  Nightmare  acting  in  atrocious  concert  with 
the  first,  when  he  saw  closely  beside  him,  towering  to  the 
ceiling,  the  protective,  kindly  Figure  that  visited  his  bed- 
room. In  the  turning  movement  he  made  to  meet  the 
attack,  he  became  aware  of  her.  And  his  terror  passed. 
It  was  a  nightmare  terror  merely.  The  infinite  horror 
vanished.    Only  the  comedy  remained.    He  smiled. 

He  saw  her  dimly  only,  she  was  so  vast,  but  he  saw 
her,  the  Ruler  of  the  Other  Wing  at  last,  and  knew 
that  he  was  safe  again.  He  gazed  with  a  tremendous 
love  and  wonder,  trying  to  see  her  clearly ;  but  the  face 
was  hidden  far  aloft  and  seemed  to  melt  into  the  sky 


128  Day  and  Night  Stories 

beyond  the  roof.  He  discerned  that  she  was  larger  than 
the  Night,  only  far,  far  softer,  with  wings  that  folded 
above  him  more  tenderly  even  than  his  mother's  arms; 
that  there  were  points  of  light  like  stars  among  the 
feathers,  and  that  she  was  vast  enough  to  cover  millions 
and  millions  of  people  all  at  once.  Moreover,  she  did 
not  fade  or  go,  so  far  as  he  could  see,  but  spread  herself 
in  such  a  way  that  he  lost  sight  of  her.  She  spread  over 
the  entire  Wing  ... 

And  Tim  remembered  that  this  was  all  quite  natural 
really.  He  had  often  and  often  been  down  this  corridor 
before ;  the  Nightmare  Corridor  was  no  new  experience ; 
it  had  to  be  faced  as  usual.  Once  knowing  what  hid 
inside  the  rooms,  he  was  bound  to  tempt  them  out. 
They  drew,  enticed,  attracted  him ;  this  was  their  power. 
It  was  their  special  strength  that  they  could  suck  him 
helplessly  towards  them,  and  that  he  was  obliged  to  go. 
He  understood  exactly  why  he  was  tempted  to  tap  with 
the  cane  upon  their  awful  doors,  but,  having  done  so,  he 
had  accepted  the  challenge  and  could  now  continue  his 
journey  quietly  and  safely.  The  Ruler  of  the  Other  Wing 
had  taken  him  in  charge. 

A  delicious  sense  of  carelessness  came  on  him.  There 
was  softness  as  of  water  in  the  solid  things  about  him, 
nothing  that  could  hurt  or  bruise.  Holding  the  cane 
firmly  by  its  ivory  handle,  he  went  forward  along  the 
corridor,  walking  as  on  air. 

The  end  was  quickly  reached:  He  stood  upon  the 
threshold  of  the  mighty  chamber  where  he  knew  the 
owner  of  the  cane  was  waiting;  the  long  corridor  lay 
behind  him,  in  front  he  saw  the  spacious  dimensions  of  a 
lofty  hall  that  gave  him  the  feeling  of  being  in  the 
Crystal  Palace,  Euston  Station,  or  St.  Paul's.  High,  nar- 
row windows,  cut  deeply  into  the  wall,  stood  in  a  row 
upon  the  other  side ;  an  enormous  open  fireplace  of  burn- 
ing logs  was  on  his  right ;  thick  tapestries  hung  from  the 
ceiling  to  the  floor  of  stone;  and  in  the  centre  of  the 


The  Other  Wing  129 

chamber  was  a  massive  table  of  dark,  shining  wood,  great 
chairs  with  carved  stiff  backs  set  here  and  there  beside  it. 
And  in  the  biggest  of  these  throne-like  chairs  there  sat  a 
figure  looking  at  him  gravely — the  figure  of  an  old,  old 
man.. 

Yet  there  was  no  surprise  in  the  boy's  fast-beating 
heart;  there  was  a  thrill  of  pleasure  and  excitement  only, 
a  feeling  of  satisfaction.  He  had  known  quite  well  the 
figure  would  be  there,  known  also  it  would  look  like  this 
exactly.  He  stepped  forward  on  to  the  floor  of  stone 
without  a  trace  of  fear  or  trembling,  holding  the  precious 
cane  in  two  hands  now  before  him,  as  though  to  present 
it  to  its  owner.  He  felt  proud  and  pleased.  He  had  run 
risks  for  this. 

And  the  figure  rose  quietly  to  meet  him,  advancing  in 
a  stately  manner  over  the  hard  stone  floor.  The  eyes 
looked  gravely,  sweetly  down  at  him,  the  aquiline  nose 
stood  out.  Tim  knew  him  perfectly:  the  knee-breeches 
of  shining  satin,  the  gleaming  buckles  on  the  shoes,  the 
neat  dark  stockings,  the  lace  and  ruffles  about  neck  and 
wrists,  the  coloured  waistcoat  opening  so  widely — all  the 
details  of  the  picture  over  father's  mantelpiece,  where  it 
hung  between  two  Crimean  bayonets,  were  reproduced  in 
life  before  his  eyes  at  last.  Only  the  polished  cane  with 
the  ivory  handle  was  not  there. 

Tim  went  three  steps  nearer  to  the  advancing  figure 
and  held  out  both  his  hands  with  the  cane  laid  crosswise 
on  them. 

"I've  brought  it.  Grandfather,"  he  said,  in  a  faint  but 
clear  and  steady  tone;  "here  it  is.'* 

And  the  other  stooped  a  little,  put  out  three  fingers 
half  concealed  by  falling  lace,  and  took  it  by  the  ivory 
handle.  He  made  a  courtly  bow  to  Tim.  He  smiled,  but 
though  there  was  pleasure,  it  was  a  grave,  sad  smile.  He 
spoke  then:  the  voice  was  slow  and  very  deep.  There 
was  a  delicate  softness  in  it,  the  suave  politeness  of  an 
older  day. 


130         Day  and  Night  Stories 

"Thank  you,"  he  said;  "I  value  it.    It  was  given  to  me 

by  my  grandfather.    I  forgot  it  when  I "    His  voice 

grew  indistinct  a  little. 

"Yes?"  said  Tim. 

"When  I — left,"  the  old  gentleman  repeated. 

"Oh,"  said  Tim,  thinking  how  beautiful  and  kind  the 
gracious  figure  was. 

The  old  man  ran  his  slender  fingers  carefully  along 
the  cane,  feeling  the  polished  surface  with  satisfaction. 
He  lingered  specially  over  the  smoothness  of  the  ivory 
handle.    He  was  evidently  very  pleased. 

"I  was  not  quite  myself — er — at  the  moment,"  he  went 
on  gently;  "my  memory  failed  me  somewhat."  He 
sighed,  as  though  an  immense  relief  was  in  him. 

"/  forget  things,  too — sometimes,"  Tim  mentioned 
sympathetically.  He  simply  loved  his  grandfather.  He 
hoped — for  a  moment — he  would  be  lifted  up  and  kissed. 
"I'm  awfully  glad  I  brought  it,"  he  faltered — "that 
you've  got  it  again." 

The  other  turned  his  kind  grey  eyes  upon  him;  the 
smile  on  his  face  was  full  of  gratitude  as  he  looked 
down. 

"Thank  you,  my  boy.  I  am  truly  and  deeply  indebted 
to  you.    You  courted  danger  for  my  sake.    Others  have 

tried  before,  but  the  Nightmare  Passage — er "     He 

broke  off.  He  tapped  the  stick  firmly  on  the  stone  floor- 
ing, as  though  to  test  it.  Bending  a  trifle,  he  put  his 
weight  upon  it.  "Ah !"  he  exclaimed  with  a  short  sigh  of 
relief,  "I  can  now " 

His  voice  again  grew  indistinct ;  Tim  did  not  catch  the 
words. 

"Yes  ?"  he  asked  again,  aware  for  the  first  time  that  a 
touch  of  awe  was  in  his  heart. 

" — get  about  again,"  the  other  continued  very  low. 
"Without  my  cane,"  he  added,  the  voice  failing  with  each 
word  the  old  lips  uttered,  "I  could  not  .  .  .  possibly  .  .  . 
allow  myself  ...  to  be  seen.     It  was  indeed  .  .  .  de- 


The  Other  Wing  131 

plorable  .  .  .  unpardonable  of  me  ...  to  forget  in  such' 
a  way.    Zounds,  sir  ...  !    I — I  .  .  ." 

His  voice  sank  away  suddenly  into  a  sound  of  wind. 
He  straightened  up,  tapping  the  iron  ferrule  of  his  cane 
on  the  stones  in  a  series  of  loud  knocks.  Tim  felt  a 
strange  sensation  creep  into  his  legs.  The  queer  words 
frightened  him  a  little. 

The  old  man  took  a  step  towards  him.  He  still  smiled, 
but  there  was  a  new  meaning  in  the  smile.  A  sudden 
earnestness  had  replaced  the  courtly,  leisurely  manner. 
The  next  words  seemed  to  blow  down  upon  the  boy  from 
above,  as  though  a  cold  wind  brought  them  from  the  sky 
outside. 

Yet  the  words,  he  knew,  were  kindly  meant,  and  very 
sensible.  It  was  only  the  abrupt  change  that  startled 
him.  Grandfather,  after  all,  was  but  a  man!  The  dis- 
tant sound  recalled  something  in  him  to  that  outside 
world  from  which  the  cold  wind  blew. 

'*My  eternal  thanks  to  you,"  he  heard,  while  the  voice 
and  face  and  figure  seemed  to  withdraw  deeper  and 
deeper  into  the  heart  of  the  mighty  chamber.  "I  shall 
not  forget  your  kindness  and  your  courage.  It  is  a  debt 
I  can,  fortunately,  one  day  repay.  .  .  .  But  now  you  had 
best  return  and  with  dispatch.  For  your  head  and  arm 
lie  heavily  on  the  table,  the  documents  are  scattered, 
there  is  a  cushion  fallen  .  .  .  and  my  son  is  in  the  house. 
....  Farewell !  You  had  best  leave  me  quickly.  See ! 
She  stands  behind  you,  waiting.  Go  with  her!  Go 
now  .  .  .  !" 

The  entire  scene  had  vanished  even  before  the  final 
words  were  uttered.  Tim  felt  empty  space  about  him. 
A  vast,  shadowy  Figure  bore  him  through  it  as  with 
mighty  wings.  He  flew,  he  rushed,  he  remembered  noth- 
ing more — until  he  heard  another  voice  and  felt  a  heavy 
hand  upon  his  shoulder. 

"Tim,  you  rascal!  What  are  you  doing  in  my  study? 
And  in  the  dark,  like  this  I"  , 


132  Day  and  Night  Stories 

He  looked  up  into  his  father's  face  without  a  word. 
He  felt  dazed.  The  next  minute  his  father  had  caught 
him  up  and  kissed  him. 

''Ragamuffin !  How  did  you  guess  I  was  coming  back 
to-night?"  He  shook  him  playfully  and  kissed  his 
tumbling  hair.  "And  you've  been  asleep,  too,  into  the 
bargain.  Well — how's  everything  at  home — eh  ?  Jack's 
coming  back  from  school  to-morrow,  you  know,  and  ,  .  ." 


Jack  came  home,  indeed,  the  following  day,  and  when 
the  Easter  holidays  were  over,  the  governess  stayed 
abroad  and  Tim  went  off  to  adventures  of  another  kind 
in  the  preparatory  school  for  Wellington.  Life  slipped 
rapidly  along  with  him ;  he  grew  into  a  man ;  his  mother 
and  his  father  died;  Jack  followed  them  within  a  little 
space ;  Tim  inherited,  married,  settled  down  into  his  great 
possessions — and  opened  up  the  Other  Wing.  The 
dreams  of  imaginative  boyhood  all  had  faded;  perhaps 
he  had  merely  put  them  away,  or  perhaps  he  had  forgot- 
ten them.  At  any  rate,  he  never  spoke  of  such  things 
now,  and  when  his  Irish  wife  mentioned  her  belief  that 
the  old  country  house  possessed  a  family  ghost,  even  de- 
claring that  she  had  met  an  Eighteenth  Century  figure 
of  a  man  in  the  corridors,  "an  old,  old  man  who  bends 
down  upon  a  stick" — Tim  only  laughed  and  said : 

"That's  as  it  ought  to  be!  And  if  these  awful  land- 
taxes  force  us  to  sell  some  day,  a  respectable  ghost  will 
increase  the  market  value." 

But  one  night  he  woke  and  heard  a  tapping  on  the 
floor.  He  sat  up  in  bed  and  Hstened.  There  was  a  chilly 
feeling  down  his  back.  Belief  had  long  since  gone  out 
of  him ;  he  felt  uncannily  afraid.  The  sound  came  nearer 
and  nearer ;  there  were  light  footsteps  with  it.  The  door 
opened — it  opened  a  little  wider,  that  is,  for  it  already 
stood  ajar — and  there  upon  the  threshold  stood  a  figure 


The  Other  Wing  133 

that  it  seemed  he  knew.  He  saw  the  face  as  with  all  the 
vivid  sharpness  of  reality.  There  was  a  smile  upon  it, 
but  a  smile  of  warning  and  alarm.  The  arm  was  raised. 
Tim  saw  the  slender  hand,  lace  falling  down  upon  the 
long,  thin  fingers,-  and  in  them,  tightly  gripped,  a  polished 
cane.  Shaking  the  cane  twice  to  and  fro  in  the  air,  the 
face  thrust  forward,  spoke  certain  words,  and — vanished. 
But  the  words  were  inaudible;  for,  though  the  lips  dis- 
tinctly moved,  no  sound,  apparently,  came  from  them. 

And  Tim  sprang  out  of  bed.  The  room  was  full  of 
darkness.  He  turned  the  light  on.  The  door,  he  saw, 
was  shut  as  usual.  He  had,  of  course,  been  dreaming. 
But  he  noticed  a  curious  odour  in  the  air.  He  sniffed  it 
once  or  twice— then  grasped  the  truth.  It  was  a  smell 
of  burning! 

Fortunately,  he  awoke  just  in  time.  .  .  . 

He  was  acclaimed  a  hero  for  his  promptitude.  After 
many  days,  when  the  damage  was  repaired,  and  nerves 
had  settled  down  once  more  into  the  calm  routine  of 
country  life,  he  told  the  story  to  his  wife — the  entire 
story.  He  told  the  adventure  of  his  imaginative  boyhood 
with  it.  She  asked  to  see  the  old  family  cane.  And  it 
was  this  request  of  hers  that  brought  back  to  memory 
a  detail  Tim  had  entirely  forgotten  all  these  years.  He 
remembered  it  suddenly  again — the  loss  of  the  cane,  the 
hubbub  his  father  kicked  up  about  it,  the  endless,  futile 
search.  For  the  stick  had  never  been  found,  and  Tim, 
who  was  questioned  very  closely  concerning  it,  swore 
with  all  his  might  that  he  had  not  the  smallest  notion 
where  it  was.    Which  was,  of  course,  the  truth. 


H-^.  tlfViM  '^^ 


VII 
THE  OCCUPANT  OF  THE  ROOM 

He  arrived  late  at  night  by  the  yellow  diligence,  stiff  and 
cramped  after  the  toilsome  ascent  of  three  slow  hours. 
The  village,  a  single  mass  of  shadow,  was  already  asleep. 
Only  in  front  of  the  little  hotel  was  there  noise  and  light 
and  bustle — for  a  moment.  \  The  horses,  with  tiredj 
slouching  gait,  crossed  the  road  and  disappeared  into  the 
stable  of  their  own  accord,  their  harness  trailing  in  the 
dust;  and  the  lumbering  diligence  stood  for  the  night 
where  they  had  dragged  it — the  body  of  a  great  yellow- 
sided  beetle  with  broken  legs. 


.  In  spite  of  his  pTiysicaPWeSnness  the  schoolmaster, 
revelling  in  the  first  hours  of  his  ten-guiiiea  holiday,  felt 
exhilarated.  For  the  high  Alpine  valley  was  mar- 
vellously still;  stars  twinkled  over  the  torn  ridges  of  the 
Dent  du  Midi  where  spectral  snows  gleamed  against 
rocks  that  looked  like  solid  ink;  and  the  keen  air  smelt 
of  pine  forests,  dew- soaked  pastures,  and  freshly  sawn 
wood.  He  took  it  all  in  with  a  kind  of  bewildered  deligiil 
for  a  few  minutes,  while  the  other  three  passengers  gave 
directions  about  their  luggage  and  went  to  their  rooms. 
Then  he  turned  and  walked  over  the  coarse  matting  into 
the  glare  of  the  hall,  only  just  able  to  resist  stopping  to 
examine  the  big  mountain  map  that  hung  upon  the  wall 
by  the  door. 

And,  with  a  sudden  disagreeable  shock,  he  came  down 
from  the  ideal  to  the  actual.  For  at  the  inn — the  only 
inn — there  was  no  vacant  room.  Even  the  available  sofas 
were  occupied.  .  .  . 

How  stupid  he  had  been  not  to  write!     Yet  it  had 

134 


The  Occupant  of  the  Room     135 

been  impossible,  he  remembered,  for  he  had  come  to  the 
decision  suddenly  that  morning  in  Geneva,  enticed  by  the 
brilliance  of  the  weather  after  a  week  of  rain. 

They  talked  endlessly,  this  gold-braided  porter  and  the 
hard-faced  old  woman — her  face  was  hard,  he  noticed — 
gesticulating  all  the  time,  and  pointing  all  about  the  vil- 
lage with  suggestions  that  he  ill  understood,  for  his 
French  was  limited  and  their  patois  was  fearful. 

''There!" — he  might  find  a  room,  "or  there!  But  we 
are,  helas^iwW — more  full  than  we  care  about.  To-mor- 
row, perhaps — if  So-and-So  give  up  their  rooms !" 

And  then,  with  much  shrugging  of  shoulders,  the  hard- 
faced  old  woman  stared  at  the  gold-braided  porter,  and 
the  porter  stared  sleepily  at  the  schoolmaster. 
'^  At  length,  however,  by  some  process  of  hope  he  did 
not  himself  understand,  and  following  directions  given 
by  the  old  woman  that  were  utterly  unintelligible,  he 
went  out  into  the  street  and  walked  towards  a  dark  group 
of  houses  she  had  pointed  out  to  him.  He  only  knew  that 
he  meant  to  thunder  at  a  door  and  ask  for  a  room.  He 
was  too  weary  to  think  out  det^ls.  The  porter  half 
-made  to  go  with  him,  but  turned  back  at  the  last  moment 
to  speak  with  the  old  woman.  The  houses  sketched 
themselves  dimly  in  the  general  blackness.  The  air  was 
cold.  =  The  whole  valley  was  filled  with  the  rush  and 
thunder  of  falling  water.  He  was  thinking  vaguely  that 
the  dawn  could  not  be  very  far  away,  and  that  he  might 
even  spend  the  night  wandering  in  the  woods,  when  there 
was  a  sharp  noise  behind  him  and  he  turned  to  see  a 
figure  hurrying  afl>^r  him.     It  was  the  porter — running. 

And  in  the  little  hall  of  the  inn  there  began  again  a 
confused  thijee-cornered  conversation,  with  frequent 
muttered  colloquy  and  whispered  asides  in  patois  be- 
tween the  woman  and  the  porter — the  net  result  of  which 
was  that,  'Tf  Monsieur  did  not  object — there  was  a  room, 
after  all,  on  the  first  floor — only  it  was  in  a  sense  *en- 
ga^ed.'    That  is  to  say " 


136  Day  and  Night  Stories 

But  the  schoolmaster  took  the  room  without  inquir- 
ing too  closely  into  the  puzzle  that  had  somehow 
provided  it  so  suddenly.  The  ethics  of  hotel-keeping 
had  nothing  to  do  with  him.  If  the  woman  offered 
him  quarters  it  was  not  for  him  to  argue  with  her 
whether  the  said  quarters  were  legitimately  hers  to 
offer. 

But  the  porter,  evidently  a  little  thrilled,  accompanied 
the  guest  up  to  the  room  and  supplied  in  a  mixture  of 
French  and  English  details  omitted  by  the  landlady — 
and  Minturn,  the  schoolmaster,  soon  shared  the  thrill 
with  him,  and  found  himself  in  the  atmosphere  of  a  pos- 
sible tragedy. 

All  who  know  the  peculiar  excitement  that  belongs  to 
high  mountain  valleys  where  dangerous  climbing  is  a 
chief  feature  of  the  attractions,  will  understand  a  certain 
faint  element  of  high  alarm  that  goes  with  the  picture. 
One  looks  up  at  the  desolate,  soaring  ridges  and  thinks 
involuntarily  of  the  men  who  find  their  pleasure  for 
days  and  nights  together  scaling  perilous  summits  among 
the  clouds,  and  conquering  inch  by  inch  the  icy  peaks  that 
for  ever  shake  their  dark  terror  in  the  sky.  The  atmos- 
phere of  adventure,  spiced  with  the  possible  horror  of  a 
very  grim  order  of  tragedy,  is  inseparable  from  any 
imaginative  contemplation  of  the  scene;  and  the  idea 
Minturn  gleaned  from  the  half- frightened  porter  lost 
nothing  by  his  ignorance  of  the  language.  This  English- 
woman, the  real  occupant  of  the  room,  had  insisted  on 
going  without  a  guide.  She  had  left  just  before  day- 
break two  days  before — the  porter  had  seen  her  start — 
and  .  .  .  she  had  not  returned!  The  route  was  difficult 
and  dangerous,  yet  not  impossible  for  a  skilled  climber, 
even  a  solitary  one.  And  the  Englishwoman  was  an  ex- 
perienced mountaineer.  Also,  she  was  self-willed,  care- 
less of  advice,  bored  by  warnings,  self-confident  to  a  de- 
gree. Queer,  moreover;  for  she  kept  entirely  to  herself, 
and  sometimes  remained  in  her  room  with  locked  doors, 


The  Occupant  of  the  Room     137 

admitting  no  one,  for  days  together :  a  "crank,"  evidently, 
of  the  first  water. 

This  much  Minturn  gathered  clearly  enough  from  the 
porter's  talk  while  his  luggage  was  brought  in  and  the 
room  set  to  rights ;  further,  too,  that  the  search  partil^-- 
had  gone  out  and  flight,  of  course,  return  at  any  mo- 
ment. In  which  case-^ —  Thus  the  room  was  empty,  yet 
still  hers.     "If  Monsieur  did  not  object — if  the  risk  he 

ran  of  having  to  turn  out  suddenly  in  the  night "   It 

was  the  loquacious  porter  who  furnished  the  details  that 
made  the  transaction  questionable;  and  Minturn  dis- 
missed the  loquacious  porter  as  soon  as  possible,  and  pre- 
pared to  get  into  the  hastily  arranged  bed  and  snatch  all 
the  hours  of  sleep  he  could  before  he  was  turned  out. 

At  first,  it  must  be  admitted,  he  felt  uncomfortable — 
distinctly  uncomfortable.  He  was  in  some  one  else's 
room.  He  had  really  no  right  to  be  there.  It  was  in 
the  nature  of  an  unwarrantable  intrusion;  and  while  he 
unpacked  he  kept  looking  over  his  shoulder\as  though 
some  one  were  watching  him  from  the  corners.  Any 
moment,  it  seemed,  he  would  hear  a  step  in  the  passage, 
a  knock  would  come  at  the  door,  the  door  would  open, 
and  there  he  would  see  this  vigorous  Englishwoman  look- 
ing him  up  and  down  with  anger.  Worse  still — he  would 
hear  her  voice  asking  him  what  he  was  doing  in  her; 
room — her  bedroom.  Of  course,  he  had  an  adequate  ex- 
planation, but  still ! 

Then,  reflecting  that  he  was  already  half  undressed, 
the  humour  of  it  flashed  for  a  second  across  his  mind, 
and  he  laughed — quietly.  And  at  once,  after  that  laugh- 
^  ter,  under  his  breath,  came  the  sudden  sense  of  tragedy 
I^Mhe  had  felt  before.'  -Perhaps,  even  while  he  smiled,  her 
body  lay  broken  and  cold  upon  those  awful  heights,  the 
wind  of  snow  playing  over  her  hair,  her  glazed  eyes 
staring  sightless  up  to  the  stars.  :  .  .  It  made  him  shud- 
der. The  sense  of  this  woman  whom  he  had  never  seen, 
whose  name  even  he  did  not  know,  became  extraor- 


138         Day  and  Night  Stories 

dinarily  real.  Almost  he  could  imagine  that  she  was 
somewhere  in  the  room  with  him,  hidden,  observing  all 
he  did. 

He  opened  the  door  softly  to  put  his  boots  outside, 
and  when  he  closed  it  again  he  turned  the  key.    Then  he 
finished  unpacking  and  distributed^s  few  things  about 
the  room.    It  was  soon  done;  for,  in  the  first  place,  he 
had  only  a  small  Gladstone  and  a  knapsack,  and  sec- 
ondly, the  only  place  where  he  could  spread  his  clothes 
was  the  sofa.    There  was  no  chest  of  drawers,  and  the 
cupboard,  an  unusually  large  and  solid  one,  was  locked. 
The  Englishwoman's  things  had  evidently  been  hastily 
put  away  in  it.     The  only  sign  of  her  recent  presence 
was  a  bunch  of  faded  Alp  euros  en  standing  in  a  glass  jar 
upon  the  washhand  stand.    This,  and  a  certain  faint  per- 
fume, were  all  that  remained.     In  spite,  however,  of 
jNj-hese  very  slight  evidences,  the  whole  room  was  pervaded 
\  with  a  curious  sense  of  occupancy  that  he  found  exceed- 
r  'ingly  distasteful.     One'moment  the  atmosphere  seemed 
<^subtly  charged  with  a  "just  left"  feeling.;  the  next  it  was 
^  a  queer  awareness  of  "still  here"  that  made  him  turn 
cold  and  look  hurriedly  behind  him. 

Altogether,  the  room  inspired  him  with  a  singular 
aversion,  and  the  strength  of  this  aversion  seemed  the 
only  excuse  for  his  tossing  the  faded  flowers  out  of  the 
window,  and  then  hanging  his  mackintosh  upon  the  cup- 
board door  in  such  a  way  as  to  screen  it  as  much  as 
possible  from  view.  For  the  sight  of  that  big,  ugly 
cupboard,  filled  with  the  clothing  of  a  woman  who  might 
then  be  beyond  any  further  need  of  covering— Ibus  his 
imagination  insisted  on  picturing  it — touched  in  him  a" 
startled  sense  of  the  Incongruous  that  did  not  stop  there, 
but  crept  through  his  mind  gradually  till  it  merged  some- 
how into  a  sense  of  a  rather  grotesque  horror.  _  At  any 
rate,  the  sight  of  that  cupboard  was  offensive,  and  he 
covered  it  almost  instinctively.  Then,  turning  out  the 
electric  light,  he  got  into  bed. 


The  Occupant  of  the  Room     139 

But  the  instant  the  room  was  dark  he  realised  that  it 
was  more  than  he  could  stand;  for,  with  the  blackness, 
there  came  a  sudden  rush  of  cold  that  he  found  it  hard 
to  explain.  And  the  odd  thing  was  that,  when  he  lit 
the  candle  beside  his  bed,  he  noticed  that  his  hand 
trembled. 

This,  of  course,  was  too  much.  His  imagination  was 
taking  liberties  and  must  be  called  to  heel.  Yet  the  way 
he  called  it  to  order  was^  significant,  and  its  very  delib- 
erateness  betrayed  a  mind  ^thatTias  already  admitted  fear. 
And  fear,  once  in,  is  difficult  to  dislodge.  He  lay  there 
upon  his  elbow  in  bed  and  carefully  took  note  of  all  the 
objects  in  the  room — with  the  intention,  as  it  were,  of 
taking  an  inventory  of  everything  his^senses  perceived, 
then  drawing  a  line,  adding  them  up  finally,  and  saying 
with  decision,  "That's  all  the  room  contains !  I've 
counted  every  single  thing.  There  is  nothing  more. 
Nom—1  may  sleep  in  peace !" 

And  it  was  during  this  absurd  process  of  enumerating 
the  furniture  of  the  room  that  the  dreadful  sense  of  dis- 
tressing_  lassitude  came  over  him  that  made  it  difficult^*^'^ 
even  to  finish  counting.     It  came  swiftly,  yet  with  an 
amazing  kind  of  violence  that  overwhelmed  him  softl] 
and  easily  with  a  sensation  of  enervating  weariness  hard    ii^ 
to  describe.    And  its  first  effect  was  to  banish  fear.    He  'tt^^ 
no  longer  possessed  enough  energy  to  feel  really  afraid 
or  nervous..\  The  cold  remained,  but  the  alarm  vanished.J^*^ 
And  into  every  corner  of  his  usually  vigorous  person- 
ality crept  the  insidious  poison  of  a  muscular  fatigue — 
at  first — that  in  a  few  seconds,  it  seemed,  translated  itself 
into  spiritual  inertia.     A  sudden  consciousness    of    the 
foolishness,  the  crass  futility,  of  life,  of  effort,  of  fight- 
ing— of  all  that  makes  life  worth  living,  shot  into  every 
fibre  of  his  being,  and  left  him  utterly  weak>-'  A  spirit 
black  pessimism  that  was  not  even  vigorous  enough 
to    assert   itself,    invaded    the    secret   chambers    of    his 
heart.  .  .  . 


^1 


140         Day  and  Night  Stories 

Every  picture  that  presented  itself  to  his  mind  came 
dressed  in  grey  shadows:  those  bored  and  sweating 
horses  toiling  up  the  ascent  to — nothing !  that  hard-faced 
landlady^ taking  so  much  trouble  to  let  her  desire  for  gain 
^onquer  ner  sense  of  morality — for  a  few  francs!   That 

Id-braided  porter,  so  talkative,  fussy,  energetic,  and  so  ^ 
anxious  to  tell  all  he  knew !    What  was  the  use  of  them  f 

11?    And  for  himself,  what  in  the  world  was  the  good 

'©r'all  the  labour  and  drudgery  he  went  through  in  that   . 

^         preparatory  school  where  he  was  junior  master?    What*^ 

could  it  lead  to?     Wherein  lay  the  value  of  so  much"^ 

uncertain  toil,  when  the  ultimate  secrets  of  life  were 

hidden  and  no  one  knew  the  final  goal?     How  foolish 

was  effort,  discipliiTe,  work!     Ho#  vain , was  pleasure! 

How  trivial  the  noblest  Hfe !_ .  .  ..i '-  ■-  <  ti';    -x^^^-i 

With   a    fearful   jump,-,that   nearly   upset   the   candle 

'    Mintum  pulled  himself  together.    Such  vicious  thoughts 

were  usually  so  remote  from  his  normal  character  that 

-V   the  sudden  vile  invasion  produced  a  swift  reaction.    Yet, 

*  ^^l^.  only    for   a   moment:'    Instantly,    again,    the   black   de- 

rr^     pression  descended  upon  him  like  a  wave.     His  work — 

it  could  lead  to  nothing  but  the  dreary  labour  of  a  small 

headmastership  after  all — seemed  as  vain  and  foolish  as 

his  holiday  in  the  Alps.     What  an  idiot  he  had  been,  to 

be  sure,  to  come  out  with  a  knapsack  merely  to  work 

himself  into  a  state  of  exhaustion  climbing  over  toilsome 

V         mountains  that  led  to  nowhere— resulted  in  nothing.     A 

^        dreariness  of  the  gr^ve  possessed  him.    Life  was  a  ghastly 

fraud!     Religioi|  achUdish  humbug!     Everything  wa'^^jji 
merely  a  trap^-^^^^ap  of   death;   a   coloured   toy   that^ 
Nature  used  as  a  decoy!     But  a  decoy  ^or^J^h^j^j^l^oik 
nothing!    There  was  no  meaning  in  anythin^^^Tiieonly^ 
,...rt'ai  thing  was— DEATH.    And  the  happiest  people  were 
'*^'     those  who  fo\ind  it, soonest. 

Then  why  wait  for  it  to  come? 

He  sprang  out  of  bed,  thoroughly  frightened.  This 
was  horrible.    Surely  mere  physical  fatigue  could  not  pro^ 


The  Occupant  of  the  Room     141 

duce  a  world  so  black,  an  outlook  so  dismal,  a  cowardice 
that  struck  with  such  sudden  hopelessness  at  the  very 
roots  of  life?  For,  normally,  he  was  cheerful  and  strong, 
full  of  the  tides  of  healthy  living;  and  this  appalling 
lassitude  swept  the  v^ery  basis  of  his  personality  into 
Nothingness  and  the  desjxe^for  death.  It  was  like  the 
development  of  a  SeconHaJ^-JPersoriality.  He  had  read, 
of  course,  how  certain  persons  who  suffered  shocks  de- 
veloped thereafter  entirely  different  characteristics,  mem- 
ory, tastes,  and  so  forth.  It  had  all  rather  frightened 
him.  Though  scientific  men  vouched  for  it,  it  was  hardly 
to  be  believed.  ,  Yet  here  was  a  similar  thing  taking 
place  in  his  ,own  ^consciousness.  He  was,  beyond  ques- 
tion, experiencmg  all  the  m^Tltal  variations  oi:^jii^_one^ 
else!  It  was*^  un-moral.  It  was  awful.  ^Jt  was — well, /\ 
after  all,  at  4he  same  time,  it  was  unco|nmonly  inter-  ^ 
esting.     '■-■■■ 

And  this  interest  he  began  to  feel  was  the  first  sign 
of  his  returning  normal  SelL  For  to  feel  interest-is  to 
live,  and  to  love  life.         ^  •«-<'*    - ' ,  x.j.j  v.  K 

He  sprang  into  the  middle  of  the  room — then  switched 
j     on  the  electric  light.    And  the  first  thing  that  struck  his    ' 
\.  eye  was-^-the  big  cupboard. 

'^Haljp  I      There's    that — beastly    cupboard !"    he    ex- 
claiiifecl^to  himself,  involuntarily,  yet  aloud.     It  held  all 
the^  clothes,  the  swinging  skirts  and  coats  and  summei;-^  , 
blouses  of  the  dead  woman.     For  he  knew  now — some-" 
how  or  other — that  she  was  dead.  .  .  . 

At  that  moment,  through  the  open  windows,  rushed  /i 
the  sound  of  falHng  water,  bringing  with  it  a  vivid -^4^^ 
realisation  of  the "qiesolate,  snow-swept  heights.  He  saw 
her— positively  saw  her! — lying  where  she  had  fallen, 
the  frost  upon  her  cheeks,  the  snow-dust  eddying  about 
her  hair  and  eyes,  her  broken  limbs  pushing  against  the 
lumps  of  ice.  For  a  moment  the  sense  of  spiritual 
lassitude — of  the  emptiness  of  life — vanished  before  this 
picture  of  broken  effort — of  a  small  human  force  bat- 


142         Day  and  Night  Stories 

^jflin^  pluckily,  yet  in  vain,  against  the  impersonal  and 
^/~  ^Y  pitife^s  Potencies  of  Inanimate  Nature — and  he  found 
»^.y*     himself  again,  his  normal  self.    Then,  instantly,  returned 
v*^       again   that  t. terrible   sens5\pf   cold,   nothingness,   empti- 
ness.   .    .    .    j.'^^rA.^        /P^^\J<^ 

And  he  found  himself  standing  opposite  the  big  cup- 
board where  her  clothes  were.     He  wanted  to  see  those 
clothes — things  she  had  used  and  worn.     Quite  close  he 
^        stood,    almost   touching   it.      The   next   second   he  iiai- 
^        touched  it.     His  knuckles  struck  upon  the  wood. 

Why  he  knocked  is  hard  to  say.  It  was  an  instinctive 
movement  probably.  Something  in  his  deepest  self  dic- 
tated it — ordered  it.  He  knocked  at  the  door."  And  the 
dull  sound  upon  the  wood  into  the  stillness  of  that  room 
brought — horror.  Why  it  should  have  done  so  he  found 
it  as  hard  to  explain  to  himself  as  why  he  should  have 
felt  impelled  to  knock.  The  fact  remains  that  when  he 
heard  the  faint  reverberation  inside  the  cupboard,  it 
brought  with  it  so  vivid  a  reahsation  of  the  woman's 
presence  that  he  stood  there  shivering  upon  the  floor 
with  a  dreadful  sense  of  anticipation:  he  almost  expected 
to  hear  an  answering  knock  from  within — the  rustling 
of  the  hanging  skirts  perhaps — or,  worse  still,  to  see  the 
locked  door  slowly  open  towards  him.       :  '-V 

-And  from  that  moment,  he  declares  that  in  some  way 
^j^r  other  he  must  have  partially  lost  -control  of  him- 
self, or  at  least  of  his  better  judgment;  for  he  became 
possessed* by  such  an  overmastering  desire  to  tear  open 
that  cupDoard  door  and  see  the  clothes  within,  that  he 
tried  every  key  in  the  room  in  the  vain  effort  to  unlock 
it,  and  then,  finally,  before  he  quite  realised  what  he 
was  doing — rang  the  bell!  v 

But,  having  rung  the  bell  for  no  dJ3vious  or  intelligent 
reason  at  two  o'clock  in  the  morning,  he  then  stood  wait- 
ing in  the  middle  of  the  floor  for  the  servant  to  come, 
conscious  for  the  first  time  that  something  outside  his 
ordinary  self  had  pushed  him  towards  the  act.     It  was 


^ 


The  Occupant  of  the  Room     143 

almost  like  an  internal  voice  that  directed  him  .  .  .  and 
thus,  when  at  last  steps  came  down  the  passage  and  he 
faced  the  cross  and  sleepy  chambermaid,  amazed  at  be- 
ing summoned  at  such  an  hour,  he  found  no  difficulty  in 
the  matter  of  what  he  should  say.  Ear  the-. same  pawer^^ 
that  insisted  he  should  open  the  cupboard  door_al_so  im- 
pelled him  to  utter  words  over  which  he  apparently  had 
no  control.  "" 

"It's  not  you  I  rang  for!"  he  said  with  decision  and 
impatience,  "I  want  a  man.  Wake  the  porter  and  send 
him  up  to  me  at  once — hurry !     I  tell  you,  hurry — — ^  f'^ 

And  when  the  girl  had  gone,  frightened  at  his  earnest^ 
ness,  Minturn  reaHsed  that  the  words  surprised  himself 
as  much  as  they  surprised  her.  Until  they  were  out  of 
his  mouth  he  had  not  known  what  exactly  he  was  saying. 
But  now  he  understood  ^that  some  force  foreign  to  his 
own  personality  was  using  ^is  mind  and  organs.  The 
black  depression  that  had  possessed  him  a  few  moments 
>before  was  also  part  of  it.  The  powerful  mood  of  this 
vanished  woman  had  somehow  momentarilyy  taken  pos- 
session of  him — communicated,  possibly,  by  the  atmos- 
phere of  things  in  the  room  still  belonging  to  her.  But 
even  n^oWj^  when  the  porter,  without  coat  or  collar,  stood 
beside  him  in  the  room,  he  did  not  understand  ^hy  he 
insisted,  with  a  positive  fury  admitting  no  denial,  that 
the  key  of  that  cupbGar4  must  be : found  and  the  door 
instantly  opened.       vJJNt'^fJL  J(UV^  (' 

The  scene  was  a  curious  one.^  After  some  perplexed 
whispering  with  the  chambermaid  at  the  end  of  the 
passage,  the  porter  managed  to  find  and  produce  the  key 
in  question.  Neither  he  nor  the  girl  knew  clearly  what 
this  excited  Englishman  was  up  to,  or  why  he  was  so 
passionately  intent  upon  opening  the  cupboard  at  two 
o'clock  in  the  morning.  They  watched  him  with  an  air 
of  wondering  what  was  going  to  happen  next.  But  some- 
thing of  his  curious  earnestness,  even  of  his  late  fear, 


144         Day  and  Night  Stories  \ 

communicated  itself  to  them,  and  the  sound  of  the  key 
grating  in  the  lock- made  them  both  jump. 

They  held  , their  breath  as  the  creaking  door  swung 
slowly  open/ ',  All  heard  the  clatter  of  that  other  key 
as  it  fell  against  the  wooden  floor — withiii^.  The  cup- 
board had  been  locked  from  the  inside.  ""But  it  was  the 
scared  housemaid,  from  her  position  in  the  corridor,  who 
first  saw — and  with  a  wild  scream  fell  crashing  against 
the  bannisters.  !     '  ' 

The  porter  made  no  attempt  to  save  her.    The  school- 
master and  himself  made  a  simultaneous  rush  towards 
the  door,  now  wide  open.    They,  too,  had  seen. 
"^-^f^      There  were  no  clothes,  skirts  or  blouses  on  the  pegs, 
xV^^but,  all  by  itself,  from  an  iron  hook  in  the  centre,^'N|:hey 
AA       saw  the  body  of  the  Englishwoman  hanging  by  the  neck, 
,  j^^  the  head  bent  horribly  forwards,  the  tongue  protruding. 
' '■ ""   Jarred  by  the  movement  of  unlocking,  the  body  swung 
slowly  round  to  face  them.  .  .  .  Pinned  upon  the  inside 
of  the  door  was  a  hotel  envelope  with  the  following  words 
pencilled  in  straggling  writing: 

"Tired — unhappy — hopelessly  depressed.  ...  I  can- 
not face  life  any  longer.  .  .  .  All  is  black.  I  must  put 
an  end  to  it.  ...  I  meant  to  do  it  on  the  mountains, 
but  was  afraid.  I  slipped  back  to  my  room  unobserved. 
This  way  is  easiest  and  best.  .  .  ." 


VIII 

CAIN'S  ATONEMENT 

So  many  thousands  to-day  have  deliberately  put  Self 
aside,  and  are  ready  to  yield  their  lives  for  an  ideal, 
that  it  is  not  surprising  a  few  of  them  should  have 
registered  experiences  of  a  novel  order.  For  to  step 
aside  from  Self  is  to  enter  a  larger  world,  to  be  open 
to  new  impressions.  If  Powers  of  Good  exist  in  the 
universe  at  all,  they  can  hardly  be  inactive  at  the  present 
time.  .  .  . 

The  case  of  two  men,  who  may  be  called  Jones  and 
Smith,  occurs  to  the  mind  in  this  connection.  Whether 
a  veil  actually  was  lifted  for  a  moment,  or  whether  the 
tension  of  long  and  terrible  months  resulted  in  an  ex- 
altation of  emotion,  the  experience  claims  significance. 
Smith,  to  whom  the  experience  came,  holds  the  firm 
belief  that  it  was  real.  Jones,  though  it  involved  him 
too,  remained  unaware. 

It  is  a  somewhat  personal  story,  their  peculiar  re- 
lationship dating  from  early  youth :  a  kind  of  unwilling 
antipathy  was  born  between  them,  yet  an  antipathy  that 
fiad  no  touch  of  hate  or  even  of  dislike.  It  was  rather 
in  the  nature  of  an  instinctive  rivalry.  Some  tie  oper- 
ated that  flung  them  ever  into  the  same  arena  with 
strange  persistence,  and  ever  as  opponents.  An  inevitable 
fate  delighted  to  throw  them  together  in  a  sense  that 
made  them  rivals ;  small  as  well  as  large  affairs  betrayed 
this  malicigus  tendency  of  the  gods.  It  showed  itself 
in  earliest  days,  at  school,  at  Cambridge,  in  travel,  even 
in  house-parties  and  the  lighter  social  intercourse. 
Though  distant  cousins,  their  families  were  not  intimate, 

145 


146         Day  and  Night  Stories 

and  there  was  no  obvious  reason  why  their  paths  should 
fall  so  persistently  together.  Yet  their  paths  did  so, 
crossing  and  recrossing  in  the  way  described.  Sooner 
or  later,  in  all  his  undertakings,  Smith  would  note  the 
shadow  of  Jones  darkening  the  ground  in  front  of  him; 
and  later,  when  called  to  the  Bar  in  his  chosen  profession, 
he  found  most  frequently  that  the  learned  counsel  in  op- 
position to  him  was  the  owner  of  this  shadow,  Jones. 
In  another  matter,  too,  they  became  rivals,  for  the  same 
girl,  oddly  enough,  attracted  both,  and  though  she  ac- 
cepted neither  offer  of  marriage  (during  Smith's  life- 
time!), the  attitude  between  them  was  that  of  unwilling 
rivals.     For  they  were  friends  as  well. 

Jones,  it  appears,  was  hardly  aware  that  any  rivalry 
existed;  he  did  not  think  of  Smith  as  an  opponent,  and 
as  an  adversary,  never.  He  did  notice,  however,  the 
constantly  recurring  meetings,  for  more  than  once  he 
commented  on  them  with  good-humoured  amusement. 
Smith,  on  the  other  hand,  was  conscious  of  a  depth  and 
strength  in  the  tie  that  certainly  intrigued  him ;  being  of 
a  thoughtful,  introspective  nature,  he  was  keenly  sensi- 
ble of  the  strange  competition  in  their  lives,  and  sought  in 
various  ways  for  its  explanation,  though  without  success. 
The  desire  to  find  out  was  very  strong  in  him.  And  this 
was  natural  enough,  owing  to  the  singular  fact  that  in 
all  their  battles  he  was  the  one  to  lose.  Invariably  Jones 
got  the  best  of  every  conflict.  Smith  always  paid ;  some- 
times he  paid  with  interest. 

Occasionally,  too,  he  seemed  forced  to  injure  himself 
while  contributing  to  his  cousin's  success.  It  was  very 
curious.  He  reflected  much  upon  it;  he  wondered  what 
the  origin  of  their  tie  and  rivalry  might  be,  but  especially 
why  it  was  that  he  invariably  lost,  and  why  he  was  so 
often  obliged  to  help  his  rival  to  the  point  even  of  his  own 
detriment.  Tempted  to  bitterness  sometimes,  he  did  not 
yield  to  it,  however;  the  relationship  remained  frank 
and  pleasant;  if  anything,  it  deepened. 


Cain's  Atonement  147 

He  remembered  once,  for  instance,  giving  his  cousin 
a  chance  introduction  which  yet  led,  a  little  later,  to  the 
third  party  offering  certain  evidence  which  lost  him  an 
important  case — ^Jones,  of  course,  winning  it.  The  third 
party,  too,  angry  at  being  dragged  into  the  case,  turned 
hostile  to  him,  thwarting  various  subsequent  projects. 
In  no  other  way  could  Jones  have  procured  this  par- 
ticular evidence;  he  did  not  know  of  its  existence  even. 
That  chance  introduction  did  it  all.  There  was  nothing 
the  least  dishonourable  on  the  part  of  Jones — it  was 
just  the  chance  of  the  dice.  The  dice  were  always  loaded 
against  Smith — and  there  were  other  instances  of  similar 
kind. 

About  this  time,  moreover,  a  singular  feeling  that  had 
lain  vaguely  in  his  mind  for  some  years  past,  took  more 
definite  form.  It  suddenly  assumed  the  character  of  a 
conviction,  that  yet  had  no  evidence  to  support  it.  A 
voice,  long  whispering  in  the  depths  of  him,  became  much 
louder,  grew  into  a  statement  that  he  accepted  without 
further  ado :  "I'm  paying  off  a  debt,"  he  phrased  it,  "an 
old,  old  debt  is  being  discharged.  I  owe  him  this — my 
help  and  so  forth."  He  accepted  it,  that  is,  as  just ;  and 
this  certainty  of  justice  kept  sweet  his  heart  and  mind, 
shutting  the  door  on  bitterness  or  envy.  The  thought, 
however,  though  it  recurred  persistently  with  each  en- 
counter, brought  no  explanation. 

When  the  war  broke  out  both  offered  their  services; 
as  members  of  the  O.T.C.,  they  got  commissions  quickly ; 
but  it  was  a  chance  remark  of  Smith's  that  made  his 
friend  join  the  very  regiment  he  himself  was  in.  They 
trained  together,  were  in  the  same  retreats  and  the  same 
advances  together.  Their  friendship  deepened.  Under 
the  stress  of  circumstances  the  tie  did  not  dissolve,  but 
strengthened.  It  was  indubitably  real,  therefore.  Then, 
oddly  enough,  they  were  both  wounded  in  the  same  en- 
gagement. 

And   it   was    here   the    remarkable    fate   that   jointly 


148  Day  and  Night  Stories 

haunted  them  betrayed  itself  more  clearly  than  in  any 
previous  incident  of  their  long  relationship — Smith  was 
wounded  in  the  act  of  protecting  his  cousin.  How  it 
happened  is  confusing  to  a  layman,  but  each  apparently 
was  leading  a  bombing-party,  and  the  two  parties  came 
together.  They  found  themselves  shoulder  to  shoulder, 
both  brimmed  with  that  pluck  which  is  complete  indif- 
ference to  Self ;  they  exchanged  a  word  of  excited  greet- 
ing; and  the  same  second  one  of  those  rare  opportunities 
of  advantage  presented  itself  which  only  the  highest 
courage  could  make  use  of.  Neither,  certainly,  was 
thinking  of  personal  reward;  it  was  merely  that  each 
saw  the  chance  by  which  instant  heroism  might  gain  a 
surprise  advantage  for  their  side.  The  risk  was  heavy, 
but  there  was  a  chance;  and  success  would  mean  a  de- 
cisive result,  to  say  nothing  of  high  distinction  for  the 
man  who  obtained  it — if  he  survived.  Smith,  being  a 
few  yards  ahead  of  his  cousin,  had  the  moment  in  his 
grasp.  He  was  in  the  act  of  dashing  forward  when  some- 
thing made  him  pause.  A  bomb  in  mid-air,  flung  from 
the  opposing  trench,  was  falling;  it  seemed  immediately 
above  him;  he  saw  that  it  would  just  miss  himself,  but 
land  full  upon  his  cousin — whose  head  was  turned  the 
other  way.  By  stretching  out  his  hand.  Smith  knew 
he  could  field  it  like  a  cricket  ball.  There  was  an  in- 
terval of  a  second  and  a  half,  he  judged.  He  hesitated — 
perhaps  a  quarter  of  a  second — then  he  acted.  He  caught 
it.  It  was  the  obvious  thing  to  do.  He  flung  it  back 
into  the  opposing  trench. 

The  rapidity  of  thought  is  hard  to  realise.  In  that 
second  and  a  half  Smith  was  aware  of  many  things : 
He  saved  his  cousin's  life  unquestionably ;  unquestionably 
also  Jones  seized  the  opportunity  that  otherwise  was  his 
cousin's.  But  it  was  neither  of  these  reflections  that  filled 
Smith's  mind.  The  dominant  impression  was  another. 
It  flashed  into  actual  words  inside  his  excited  brain : 
"I  must  risk  it.     I  owe  it  to  him — and  more  besides!" 


Cain's  Atonement  149 

He  was,  further,  aware  of  another  impulse  than  the 
obvious  one.  In  the  first  fraction  of  a  second  it  was 
overwhelmingly  established.  And  it  was  this:  that  the 
entire  episode  was  familiar  to  him.  A  subtle  familiarity- 
was  present.  All  this  had  happened  before.  He  had 
already — somewhere,  somehow — seen  death  descending 
upon  his  cousin  from  the  air.  Yet  with  a  difference. 
The  ^'difference"  escaped  him ;  the  familiarity  was  vivid. 
That  he  missed  the  deadly  detonators  in  making  the 
catch,  or  that  the  fuse  delayed,  he  called  good  luck. 
He  only  remembers  that  he  flung  the  gruesome  weapon 
back  whence  it  had  come,  and  that  its  explosion  in  the 
opposite  trench  materially  helped  his  cousin  to  find  glory 
in  the  place  of  death.  The  slight  delay,  however,  re- 
sulted in  his  receiving  a  bullet  through  the  chest — a  bul- 
let he  would  not  otherwise  have  received,  presumably. 

It  was  some  days  later,  gravely  wounded,  that  he  dis- 
covered his  cousin  in  another  bed  across  the  darkened 
floor.  They  exchanged  remarks.  Jones  was  already 
* 'decorated,"  it  seemed,  having  snatched  success  from  his 
cousin's  hands,  while  little  aware  whose  help  had  made 
it  easier.  .  .  .  And  once  again  there  stole  across  the  in- 
most mind  of  Smith  that  strange,  insistent  whisper:  *T 
owed  it  to  him  .  .  .  but,  by  God,  I  owe  more  than  that 
...  I  mean  to  pay  it  too  .  .  . !" 

There  was  not  a  trace  of  bitterness  or  envy  now ;  only 
this  profound  conviction,  of  obscurest  origin,  that  it  was 
right  and  absolutely  just — full,  honest  repayment  of  a 
debt  incurred.  Some  ancient  balance  of  account  was  be- 
ing settled ;  there  was  no  "chance" ;  injustice  and  caprice 
played  no  role  at  all.  .  .  .  And  a  deeper  understanding 
of  life's  ironies  crept  into  him ;  for  if  everything  was  just, 
there  was  no  room  for  whimpering. 

And  the  voice  persisted  above  the  sound  of  busy  foot- 
steps in  the  ward :  'T  owe  it  .  .  .  I'll  pay  it  gladly  .  .  . !" 

Through  the  pain  and  weakness  the  whisper  died  away. 
He  was  exhausted.    There  were  periods  of  unconscious- 


150         Day  and  Night  Stories 

ness,  but  there  were  periods  of  half-consciousness  as 
well;  then  flashes  of  another  kind  of  consciousness  alto- 
gether, when,  bathed  in  high,  soft  light,  he  was  aware  of 
things  he  could  not  quite  account  for.  He  saw.  It  was 
absolutely  real.  Only,  the  critical  faculty  was  gone.  He 
did  not  question  what  he  saw,  as  he  stared  across  at  his 
cousin's  bed.  He  knew.  Perhaps  the  beaten,  worn-out 
body  let  something  through  at  last.  The  nerves,  over- 
strained to  numbness,  lay  very  still.  The  physical  sys- 
tem, battered  and  depleted,  made  no  cry.  The  clamour 
of  the  flesh  was  hushed.  He  was  aware,  however,  of 
an  undeniable  exaltation  of  the  spirit  in  him,  as  he  lay 
and  gazed  towards  his  cousin's  bed.  .  .  . 

Across  the  night  of  time,  it  seemed  to  him,  the  picture 
stole  before  his  inner  eye  with  a  certainty  that  left  no 
room  for  doubt.  It  was  not  the  cells  of  memory  in  his 
brain  of  To-day  that  gave  up  their  dead,  it  was  the 
eternal  Self  in  him  that  remembered  and  understood — 
the  soul.  ... 

With  that  satisfaction  which  is  born  of  full  com- 
prehension, he  watched  the  light  glow  and  spread  about 
the  little  bed.  Thick  matting  deadened  the  footsteps 
of  nurses,  orderlies,  doctors.  New  cases  were  brought  in, 
*'old"  cases  were  carried  out ;  he  ignored  them ;  he  saw 
only  the  light  above  his  cousin's  bed  grow  stronger.  He 
lay  still  and  stared.  It  came  neither  from  the  ceiling  nor 
the  floor;  it  unfolded  like  a  cloud  of  shining  smoke.  And 
the  little  lamp,  the  sheets,  the  figure  framed  between 
them — all  these  slid  cleverly  away  and  vanished  utterly. 
He  stood  in  another  place  that  had  lain  behind  all  these 
appearances — a  landscape  with  wooded  hills,  a  foaming 
river,  the  sun  just  sinking  below  the  forest,  and  dusk 
creeping  from  a  gorge  along  the  lonely  banks.  In  the 
warm  air  there  was  a  perfume  of  great  flowers  and  heavy- 
scented  trees ;  there  were  fire-flies,  and  the  taste  of  spray 
from  the  tumbling  river  was  on  his  lips.  Across  the 
water  a  large  bird,  flapped  its  heavy  wings,  as  it  moved 


Cain's  Atonement  151 

down-stream  to  find  another  fishing  place.  For  he  and 
his  companion  had  disturbed  it  as  they  broke  out  of 
the  thick  foliage  and  reached  the  river-bank.  The  com- 
panion, moreover,  was  his  brother;  they  ever  hunted 
together;  there  was  a  passionate  link  between  them  born 
of  blood  and  of  affection — they  were  twins.  .  .  . 

It  all  was  as  clear  as  though  of  Yesterday.  In  his 
heart  was  the  lust  of  the  hunt;  in  his  blood  was  the  lust 
of  woman;  and  thick  behind  these  lurked  the  jealousy 
and  fierce  desire  of  a  primitive  day.  But,  though  clear  as 
of  Yesterday,  he  knew  that  it  was  of  long,  long  ago.  .  .  . 
And  his  brother  came  up  close  beside  him,  resting  his 
bloody  spear  with  a  clattering  sound  against  the  boulders 
on  the  shore.  He  saw  the  gleaming  of  the  metal  in  the 
sunset,  he  saw  the  shining  glitter  of  the  spray  upon  the 
boulders,  he  saw  his  brother's  eyes  look  straight  into  his 
own.  And  in  them  shone  a  light  that  was  neither  the  re- 
flection of  the  sunset,  nor  the  excitement  of  the  hunt 
just  over. 

''It  escaped  us,"  said  his  brother.  "Yet  I  know  my 
first  spear  struck." 

"It  followed  the  fawn  that  crossed,"  was  the  reply. 
"Besides,  we  came  down  wind,  thus  giving  it  warning. 
Our  flocks,  at  any  rate,  are  safer " 

The  other  laughed  significantly. 

"It  is  not  the  safety  of  our  flocks  that  troubles  me 
just  now,  brother,"  he  interrupted  eagerly,  while  the 
light  burned  more  deeply  in  his  eyes.  "It  is,  rather,  that 
she  waits  for  me  by  the  fire  across  the  river,  and  that  I 
would  get  to  her.  With  your  help  added  to  my  love,"  he 
went  on  in  a  trusting  voice,  "the  gods  have  shown  me 
the  favour  of  true  happiness!"  He  pointed  with  his 
spear  to  a  camp-fire  on  the  fdirther  bank,  turning  his  head 
as  he  strode  to  plunge  into  the  stream  and  swim  across. 

For  an  instant,  then,  the  other  felt  his  natural  love 
turn  into  bitter  hate.  His  own  fierce  passion,  uncon- 
fessed,   concealed,  burst   into  instant   flame.     That  the 


152  Day  and  Night  Stories 

girl  should  become  his  brother's  wife  sent  the  blood 
surging  through  his  veins  in  fury.  He  felt  his  life  and 
all  that  he  desired  go  down  in  ashes.  .  .  .  He  watched 
his  brother  stride  towards  the  water,  the  deer-skin  cast 
across  one  naked  shoulder — when  another  object  caught 
his  practised  eye.  In  mid-air  it  passed  suddenly,  like  a 
shining  gleam ;  it  seemed  to  hang  a  second ;  then  it  swept 
swiftly  forward  past  his  head — and  downward.  It  had 
leaped  with  a  blazing  fury  from  the  overhanging  -bank 
behind;  he  saw  the  blood  still  streaming  from  its 
wounded  flank.  It  must  land — he  saw  it  with  a  secret, 
awful  pleasure — full  upon  the  striding  figure,  whose  head 
was  turned  away! 

The  swiftness  of  that  leap,  however,  was  not  so  swift 
but  that  he  could  easily  have  used  his  spear.  Indeed, 
he  gripped  it  strongly.  His  skill,  his  strength,  his  aim — 
he  knew  them  well  enough.  But  hate  and  love,  fastening 
upon  his  heart,  held  all  his  muscles  still.  He  hesitated. 
He  was  no  murderer,  yet  he  paused.  He  heard  the  roar, 
the  ugly  thud,  the  crash,  the  cry  for  help — too  late  .  .  . 
and  when,  an  instant  afterwards,  his  steel  plunged  into 
the  great  beast's  heart,  the  human  heart  and  life  he  might 
have  saved  lay  still  for  ever.  .  .  .  He  heard  the  water 
rushing  past,  an  icy  wind  came  down  the  gorge  against 
his  naked  back,  he  saw  the  fire  shine  upon  the  farther 
bank  .  .  .  and  the  figure  of  a  girl  in  skins  was  wading 
across,  seeking  out  the  shallow  places  in  the  dusk,  and 
calling  wildly  as  she  came.  .  .  .  Then  darkness  hid  the 
entire  landscape,  yet  a  darkness  that  was  deeper,  bluer 
than  the  velvet  of  the  night  alone.  .  .  . 

And  he  shrieked  aloud  in  his  remorseful  anguish : 
''May  the  gods  forgive  me,  for  I  did  not  mean  it!  Oh, 
that  I  might  undo  .  .  .  that  I  might  repay.  .  .  .  I" 

That  his  cries  disturbed  the  weary  occupants  in  more 
than  one  bed  is  certain,  but  he  remembers  chiefly  that 
a  nurse  was  quickly  by  his  side,  and  that  something  she 
gave  him  soothed  his  violent  pain  and  helped  him  into 


Cain's  Atonement  153 

deeper  sleep  again.  There  was,  he  noticed,  anyhow,  no 
longer  the  soft,  clear,  blazing  light  about  his  cousin's  bed. 
He  saw  only  the  faint  glitter  of  the  oil-lamps  down  the 
length  of  the  great  room.  .  .  . 

And  some  weeks  later  he  went  back  to  fight.  The 
picture,  however,  never  left  his  memory.  It  stayed  with 
him  as  an  actual  reality  that  was  neither  delusion  nor 
hallucination.  He  believed  that  he  understood  at  last 
the  meaning  of  the  tie  that  had  fettered  him  and  puz- 
zled him  so  long.  The  memory  of  those  far-off  days 
of  shepherding  beneath  the  stars  of  long  ago  remained 
vividly  beside  him.  He  kept  his  secret,  however.  In  many 
a  talk  with  his  cousin  beneath  the  nearer  stars  of  Flanders 
no  word  of  it  ever  passed  his  lips. 

The  friendship  between  them,  meanwhile,  experienced 
a  curious  deepening,  though  unacknowledged  in  any 
spoken  words.  Smith,  at  any  rate,  on  his  side,  put  into 
it  an  affection  that  was  a  brave  man's  love.  He  watched 
over  his  cousin.  In  the  fighting  especially,  when  pos- 
sible, he  sought  to  protect  and  shield  him,  regardless  of 
his  own  personal  safety.  He  delighted  secretly  in  the 
honours  his  cousin  had  already  won.  He  himself  was 
not  yet  even  mentioned  in  dispatches,  and  no  public  dis- 
tinction of  any  kind  had  come  his  way. 

His  V.C.  eventually — well,  he  was  no  longer  occupying 
his  body  when  it  was  bestowed.  He  had  already  ''left." 
.  .  .  He  was  now  conscious,  possibly,  of  other  experi- 
ences besides  that  one  of  ancient,  primitive  days  when 
he  and  his  brother  were  shepherding  beneath  other  stars. 
But  the  reckless  heroism  which  saved  his  cousin  under 
fire  may  later  enshrine  another  memory  which,  at  some 
far  future  time,  shall  reawaken  as  a  "hallucination"  from 
a  Past  that  to-day  is  called  the  Present.  .  .  .  The  no- 
tion, at  any  rate,  flashed  across  his  mind  before  he 
"left" 


IX 

AN  EGYPTIAN  HORNET 

The  word  has  an  angry,  malignant  sound  that  brings  the 
idea  of  attack  vividly  into  the  mind.  There  is  a  vicious 
sting  about  it  somewhere — even  a  foreigner,  ignorant 
of  the  meaning,  must  feel  it.  A  hornet  is  wicked ;  it  darts 
and  stabs ;  it  pierces,  aiming  without  provocation  for  the 
face  and  eyes.  The  name  suggests  a  metallic  droning  of 
evil  wings,  fierce  flight,  and  poisonous  assault.  Though 
black  and  yellow,  it  sounds  scarlet.  There  is  blood  in  it. 
A  striped  tiger  of  the  air  in  concentrated  form!  There 
is  no  escape — if  it  attacks. 

In  Egypt  an  ordinary  bee  is  the  size  of  an  English 
hornet,  but  the  Egyptian  hornet  is  enormous.  It  is  truly 
monstrous — an  ominous,  dying  terror.  It  shares  that  uni- 
versal quality  of  the  land  of  the  Sphinx  and  Pyramids 
— great  size.  It  is  a  formidable  insect,  worse  than  scor- 
pion or  tarantula.  The  Rev.  James  Milligan,  meeting  one 
for  the  first  time,  reaHsed  the  meaning  of  another  word 
as  well,  a  word  he  used  prolifically  in  his  eloquent 
sermons — devil. 

One  morning  in  April,  when  the  heat  began  to  bring 
the  insects  out,  he  rose  as  usual  betimes  and  went  across 
the  wide  stone  corridor  to  his  bath.  The  desert  al- 
ready glared  in  through  the  open  windows.  The  heat 
would  be  afflicting  later  in  the  day,  but  at  this  early 
hour  the  cool  north  wind  blew  pleasantly  down  the  hotel 
passages.  It  was  Sunday,  and  at  half-past  eight  o'clock 
he  would  appear  to  conduct  the  morning  service  for  the 
English  visitors.  The  floor  of  the  passage-way  was  cold 
beneath  his  feet  in  their  thin  native  slippers  of  bright 

154 


An  Egyptian  Hornet  155 

yellow.  He  was  neither  young  nor  old;  his  salary  was 
comfortable;  he  had  a  competency  of  his  own,  without 
wife  or  children  to  absorb  it;  the  dry  climate  had  been 
recommended  to  him ;  and — the  big  hotel  took  him  in  for 
next  to  nothing.  And  he  was  thoroughly  pleased  with 
himself,  for  he  was  a  sleek,  vain,  pompous,  well-ad- 
vertised personality,  but  mean  as  a  rat.  No  worries  of 
any  kind  were  on  his  mind  as,  carrying  sponge  and  towel, 
scented  soap  and  a  bottle  of  Scrubb's  ammonia,  he 
travelled  amiably  across  the  deserted,  shining  corridor 
to  the  bathroom.  And  nothing  went  wrong  with  the 
Rev.  James  Milligan  until  he  opened  the  door,  and  his 
eye  fell  upon  a  dark,  suspicious-looking  object  clinging 
to  the  window-pane  in  front  of  him. 

And  even  then,  at  first,  he  felt  no  anxiety  or  alarm, 
but  merely  a  natural  curiosity  to  know  exactly  what  it 
was — this  little  clot  of  an  odd-shaped,  elongated  thing 
that  stuck  there  on  the  wooden  framework  six  feet  be- 
fore his  aquiline  nose.  He  went  straight  up  to  it  to 
see — then  stopped  dead.  His  heart  gave  a  distinct,  un- 
clerical  leap.  His  lips  formed  themselves  into  unre- 
generate  shape.  He  gasped:  ''Good  God!  What  is  it?" 
For  something  unholy,  something  wicked  as  a  secret  sin, 
stuck  there  before  his  eyes  in  the  patch  of  blazing  sun- 
shine.   He  caught  his  breath. 

For  a  moment  he  was  unable  to  move,  as  though  the 
sight  half  fascinated  him.  Then,  cautiously  and  very 
slowly — stealthily,  in  fact — he  withdrew  towards  the 
door  he  had  just  entered.  Fearful  of  making  the  smallest 
sound,  he  retraced  his  steps  on  tiptoe.  His  yellow  slip- 
pers shuffled.  His  dry  sponge  fell,  and  bounded  till  it 
settled,  rolling  close  beneath  the  horribly  attractive  ob- 
ject facing  him.  From  the  safety  of  the  open  door, 
with  ample  space  for  retreat  behind  him,  he  paused 
and  stared.  His  entire  being  focused  itself  in  his  eyes. 
It  was  a  hornet  .that  he  saw.  It  hung  there,  motionless 
and  threatening,  between  him  and  the  bathroom  door. 


156         Day  and  Night  Stories 

And  at  first  he  merely  exclaimed — below  his  breath — 
''Good  God!     It's  an  Egyptian  hornet!" 

Being  a  man  with  a  reputation  for  decided  action, 
however,  he  soon  recovered  himself.  He  was  well 
schooled  in  self-control.  When  people  left  his  church 
at  the  beginning  of  the  sermon,  no  muscle  of  his  face 
betrayed  the  wounded  vanity  and  annoyance  that  burned 
deep  in  his  heart.  But  a  hornet  sitting  directly  in  his 
path  was  a  very  different  matter.  He  realised  in  a  flash 
that  he  was  poorly  clothed — in  a  word,  that  he  was 
pn  ctically  half  naked. 

From  a  distance  he  examined  this  intrusion  of  the  devil. 
It  was  calm  and  very  still.  It  was  wonderfully  made, 
both  before  and  behind.  Its  wings  were  folded  upon  its 
terrible  body.  Long,  sinuous  things,  pointed  like  tempta- 
tion, barbed  as  well,  stuck  out  of  it.  There  was  poison, 
and  yet  grace,  in  its  exquisite  presentment.  Its  shiny 
black  was  beautiful,  and  the  yellow  strij>es  upon  its  sleek, 
curved  abdomen  were  like  the  gleaming  ornaments  upon 
some  feminine  body  of  the  seductive  world  he  preached 
against.  Almost,  he  saw  an  abandoned  dancer  on  the 
stage.  And  then,  swiftly  in  his  impressionable  soul,  the 
simile  changed,  and  he  saw  instead  more  blunt  and  ag- 
gressive forms  of  destruction.  The  well-filled  body, 
tapering  to  a  horrid  point,  reminded  him  of  those  per- 
fect engines  of  death  that  reduce  hundreds  to  annihila- 
tion unawares — torpedoes,  shells,  projectiles,  crammed 
with  secret,  desolating  powers.  Its  wings,  its  awful,  quiet 
head,  its  delicate,  slim  waist,  its  stripes  of  brilliant 
saffron — all  these  seemed  the  concentrated  prototype  of 
abominations  made  cleverly  by  the  brain  of  man,  and 
beautifully  painted  to  disguise  their  invisible  freight  of 
cruel  death. 

*'Bah !"  he  exclaimed,  ashamed  of  his  prolific  imagina- 
tion. 'Tt's  only  a  hornet  after  all — an  insect!"  And  he 
contrived  a  hurried,  careful  plan.  He  aimed  a  towel 
at  it,  rolled  up  into  a  ball — but  did  not  throw  it.     He 


An  Egyptian  Hornet  157 

might  miss.  He  remembered  that  his  ankles  were  unpro- 
tected. Instead,  he  paused  again,  examining  the  black 
and  yellow  object  in  safe  retirement  near  the  door,  as  one 
day  he  hoped  to  watch  the  world  in  leisurely  retirement 
in  the  country.  It  did  not  move.  It  was  fixed  and  ter- 
rible. It  made  no  sound.  Its  wings  were  folded.  Not 
even  the  black  antennae,  blunt  at  the  tips  like  clubs, 
showed  the  least  stir  or  tremble.  It  breathed,  however. 
He  watched  the  rise  and  fall  of  the  evil  body ;  it  breathed 
air  in  and  out  as  he  himself  did.  The  creature,  he 
realised,  had  lungs  and  heart  and  organs.  It  had  a  br^in ! 
Its  mind  was  active  all  this  time.  It  knew  it  was  being 
watched.  It  merely  waited.  Any  second,  with  a  whiz 
of  fury,  and  with  perfect  accuracy  of  aim,  it  might  dart 
at  him  and  strike.  If  he  threw  the  towel  and  missed — 
it  certainly  would. 

There  were  other  occupants  of  the  corridor,  however, 
and  a  sound  of  steps  approaching  gave  him  the  decision 
to  act.  He  would  lose  his  bath  if  he  hesitated  much 
longer.  He  felt  ashamed  of  his  timidity,  though 
''pusillanimity"  was  the  word  thought  selected  owing  to 
the  pulpit  vocabulary  it  was  his  habit  to  prefer.  He 
went  with  extreme  caution  towards  the  bathroom  door, 
passing  the  point  of  danger  so  close  that  his  skin  turned 
hot  and  cold.  With  one  foot  gingerly  extended,  he  re- 
covered his  sponge.  The  hornet  did  not  move  a  muscle. 
But — it  had  seen  him  pass.  It  merely  waited.  All  dan- 
gerous insects  had  that  trick.  It  knew  quite  well  he 
was  inside ;  it  knew  quite  well  he  must  come  out  a  few 
minutes  later;  it  also  knew  quite  well  that  he  was — 
naked. 

Once  inside  the  little  room,  he  closed  the  door  with 
exceeding  gentleness,  lest  the  vibration  might  stir  the 
fearful  insect  to  attack.  The  bath  was  already  filled,  and 
he  plunged  to  his  neck  with  a  feeling  of  comparative 
security.  A  window  into  the  outside  passage  he  also 
closed,   so  that  nothing  could  possibly  come  in.     And 


158  Day  and  Night  Stories  ' 

steam  soon  charged  the  air  and  left  its  blurred  deposit  on 
the  glass.  For  ten  minutes  he  could  enjoy  himself  and 
pretend  that  he  was  safe.  For  ten  minutes  he  did  so. 
He  behaved  carelessly,  as  though  nothing  mattered,  and 
as  though  all  the  courage  in  the  world  were  his.  He 
splashed  and  soapied  and  sponged,  making  a  lot  of  reck- 
less noise.  He  got  out  and  dried  himself.  Slowly  the 
steam  subsided,  the  air  grew  clearer,  he  put  on  dressing- 
gown  and  slippers.    It  was  time  to  go  out. 

Unable  to  devise  any  further  reason  for  delay,  he 
opened  the  door  softly  half  an  inch — peeped  out — and 
instantly  closed  it  again  with  a  resounding  bang.  He 
had  heard  a  drone  of  wings.  The  insect  had  left  its  perch 
and  now  buzzed  upon  the  floor  directly  in  his  path. 
The  air  seemed  full  of  stings;  he  felt  stabs  all  over 
him ;  his  unprotected  portions  winced  with  the  expectancy 
of  pain.  The  beast  knew  he  was  coming  out,  and  was 
waiting  for  him.  In  that  brief  instant  he  had  felt  its 
sting  all  over  him,  on  his  unprotected  ankles,  on  his 
back,  his  neck,  his  cheeks,  in  his  eyes,  and  on  the  bald 
clearing  that  adorned  his  Anglican  head.  Through  the 
closed  door  he  heard  the  ominous,  dull  murmur  of  his 
striped  adversary  as  it  beat  its  angry  wings.  Its  oiled 
and  wicked  sting  shot  in  and  out  with  fury.  Its  deft 
legs  worked.  He  saw  its  tiny  waist  already  writhing 
with  the  lust  of  battle.  Ugh !  That  tiny  waist !  A  mo- 
ment's steady  nerve  and  he  could  have  severed  that  cun- 
ning body  from  the  directing  brain  with  one  swift,  well- 
directed  thrust.    But  his  nerve  had  utterly  deserted  him. 

Human  motives,  even  in  the  professedly  holy,  are 
an  involved  affair  at  any  time.  Just  now,  in  the  Rev. 
James  Milligan,  they  were  quite  inextricably  mixed.  He 
claims  this  explanation,  at  any  rate,  in  excuse  of  his 
abominable  subsequent  behaviour.  For,  exactly  at  this 
moment,  when  he  had  decided  to  admit  cowardice  by  ring- 
ing for  the  Arab  servant,  a  step  was  audible  in  the  cor- 
ridor outside,  and  courage  came  with  it  into  his  dis- 


An  Egyptian  Hornet  159 

reputable  heart.  It  was  the  step  of  the  man  he  cordially 
"disapproved  of,"  using  the  pulpit  version  of  "hated  and 
despised."  He  had  overstayed  his  time,  and  the  bath 
wsis  in  demand  by  Mr.  Mullins.  Mr.  Mullins  invariably 
followed  him  at  seven-thirty;  it  was  now  a  quarter  to 
eight.  And  Mr.  Mullins  was  a  wretched  drinking  man 
—"a  sot." 

In  a  flash  the  plan  was  conceived  and  put  into  execu- 
tion. The  temptation,  of  course,  was  of  the  devil.  Mr. 
Milligan  hid  the  motive  from  himself,  pretending  he 
hardly  recognised  it.  The  plan  was  what  men  call  a  dirty 
trick;  it  was  also  irresistibly  seductive.  He  opened  the 
door,  stepped  boldly,  nose  in  the  air,  right  over  the 
hideous  insect  on  the  floor,  and  fairly  pranced  into  the 
outer  passage.  The  brief  transit  brought  a  hundred 
horrible  sensations — that  the  hornet  would  rise  and  sting 
his  leg,  that  it  would  cling  to  his  dressing-gown  and  stab 
his  spine,  that  he  would  step  upon  it  and  die,  like  Achilles, 
of  a  heel  exposed.  But  with  these,  and  conquering  them, 
was  one  other  stronger  emotion  that  robbed  the  lesser 
terrors  of  their  potency — that  Mr.  Mullins  would  run 
precisely  the  same  risks  five  seconds  later,  unprepared. 
He  heard  the  gloating  insect  buzz  and  scratch  the  oil- 
cloth.   But  it  was  behind  him.    He  was  safe ! 

"Good  morning  to  you,  Mr.  Mullins,"  he  observed  with 
a  gracious  smile.  "I  trust  I  have  not  kept  you  wait- 
ing." 

"Mornin'!"  grunted  Mullins  sourly  in  reply,  as  he 
passed  him  with  a  distinctly  hostile  and  contemptuous 
air.  For  Mullins,  though  depraved,  perhaps,  was  an 
honest  man,  abhorring  parsons  and  making  no  secret  of 
his  opinions — whence  the  bitter  feeling. 

All  men,  except  those  very  big  ones  who  are  super- 
men, have  something  astonishingly  despicable  in  them. 
The  despicable  thing  in  Milligan  came  uppermost  now. 
He  fairly  chuckled.  He  met  the  snub  with  a  calm,  for- 
giving smile,  and  continued  his  shambling  gait  with  what 


i6o         Day  and  Night  Stories 

dignity  he  could  towards  his  bedroom  opposite.  Then 
he  turned  his  head  to  see.  His  enemy  would  meet  an 
infuriated  hornet — an  Egyptian  hornet! — and  might  not 
notice  it.  He  might  step  on  it.  He  might  not.  But  he 
was  bound  to  disturb  it,  and  rouse  it  to  attack.  The 
chances  were  enormously  on  the  clerical  side.  And  its 
sting  meant  death. 

**May  God  forgive  me!"  ran  subconsciously  through 
his  mind.  And  side  by  side  with  the  repentant  prayer 
ran  also  a  recognition  of  the  tempter's  eternal  skill:  'T 
hope  the  devil  it  will  sting  him!" 

It  happened  very  quickly.  The  Rev.  James  Milligan 
lingered  a  moment  by  his  door  to  watch.  He  saw  Mul- 
lins,  the  disgusting  Mullins,  step  bHthely  into  the  bath- 
room passage ;  he  saw  him  pause,  shrink  back,  and  raise 
his  arm  to  protect  his  face.     He  heard  him  swear  out 

aloud :  "What's  the  d d  thing  doing  here  ?     Have  I 

really  got  'em  again ?"     And  then  he  heard   him 

laugh — a  hearty,  guffawing  laugh  of  genuine  relief 

'Tt's  reair 

The  moment  of  revulsion  was  overwhelming.  It  filled 
the  churchly  heart  with  anguish  and  bitter  disappoint- 
ment.   For  a  space  he  hated  the  whole  race  of  men. 

For  the  instant  Mr.  Mullins  reahsed  that  the  insect  was 
not  a  fiery  illusion  of  his  disordered  nerves,  he  went 
forward  without  the  smallest  hesitation.  With  his  towel 
he  knocked  down  the  flying  terror.  Then  he  stooped. 
He  gathered  up  the  venomous  thing  his  well-aimed  blow 
had  stricken  so  easily  to  the  floor.  He  advanced  with 
it,  held  at  arm's  length,  to  the  window.  He  tossed  it 
out  carelessly.  The  Egyptian  hornet  flew  away  unin- 
jured, and  Mr.  Mullins — the  Mr.  Mullins  who  drank, 
gave  nothing  to  the  church,  attended  no  services,  hated 
parsons,  and  proclaimed  the  fact  with  enthusiasm — this 
same  detestable  Mr.  Mullins  went  to  his  unearned  bath 
without  a  scratch.  But  first  he  saw  his  enemy  standing  in 
the  doorway  across  the  passage,  watching  him — and  un- 


An  Egyptian  Hornet  i6i 

derstood.  That  was  the  awful  part  of  it.  Mullins  would 
make  a  story  of  it,  and  the  story  would  go  the  round  of 
the  hotel. 

The  Rev.  James  Milligan,  however,  proved  that  his 
reputation  for  self-control  was  not  undeserved.  He  con- 
ducted morning  service  half  an  hour  later  with  an  ex- 
pression of  peace  upon  his  handsome  face.  He  con- 
quered all  outward  sign  of  inward  spiritual  vexation; 
the  wicked,  he  consoled  himself,  ever  flourish  like  green 
bay  trees.  It  was  notorious  that  the  righteous  never  have 
any  luck  at  all!  That  was  bad  enough.  But  what  was 
worse — and  the  Rev.  James  Milligan  remembered  for 
very  long — was  the  superior  ease  with  which  Mullins 
had  relegated  both  himself  and  hornet  to  the  same  level 
of  comparative  insignificance.  Mullins  ignored  them 
both — which  proved  that  he  felt  himself  superior.  In- 
finitely worse  than  the  sting  of  any  hornet  in  the  world : 
he  really  was  superior. 


BY  WATER 

The  night  before  young  Larsen  left  to  take  up  his  new 
appointment  in  Egypt  he  went  to  the  clairvoyante.  He 
neither  believed  nor  disbelieved.  He  felt  no  interest, 
for  he  already  knew  his  past  and  did  not  wish  to  know 
his  future.  "J^st  to  please  me,  Jim,"  the  girl  pleaded. 
"The  woman  is  wonderful.  Before  I  had  been  five 
minutes  with  her  she  told  me  your  initials,  so  there 
must  be  something  in  it."  "She  read  your  thought,"  he 
smiled  indulgently.  "Even  I  can  do  that !"  But  the  girl 
was  in  earnest.  He  yielded ;  and  that  night  at  his  fare- 
well dinner  he  came  to  give  his  report  of  the  interview. 

The  result  was  meagre  and  unconvincing:  money  was 
coming  to  him,  he  was  soon  to  make  a  voyage,  and — he 
would  never  marry.  "So  you  see  how  silly  it  all  is,"  he 
laughed,  for  they  were  to  be  ma  ried  when  his  first  pro- 
motion came.  He  gave  the  details,  however,  making  a 
little  story  of  it  ?n  the  way  he  knew  she  loved. 

"But  was  that  all,  Jim?"  The  girl  asked  it,  looking 
rather  hard  into  his  face.  "Aren't  you  hiding  something 
from  me?"  He  hesitated  a  moment,  then  burst  out 
laughing  at  her  clever  discernment.  "There  zvas  a  little 
more,"  he  confessed,  "but  you  take  it  all  so  seriously; 
I " 

He  had  to  tell  it  then,  of  course.  The  woman  had 
told  him  a  lot  of  gibberish  about  friendly  and  unfriendly 
elements.  "She  said  water  was  unfriendly  to  me ;  I  was 
to  be  careful  of  water,  or  else  I  should  come  to  harm 
by  it.  Fresh  water  only,"  he  hastened  to  add,  seeing 
that  the  idea  of  shipwreck  was  in  her  mind. 

162 


By  Water  163 

"Drowning?'*  the  girl  asked  quickly. 

"Yes,"  he  admitted  with  reluctance,  but  still  laughing; 
"she  did  say  drowning,  though  drowning  in  no  ordinary 
way." 

The  girl's  face  showed  uneasiness  a  moment.  "What 
does  that  mean — drowning  in  no  ordinary  way?"  she 
asked,  a  catch  in  her  breath. 

But  that  he  could  not  tell  her,  because  he  did  not  know 
himself.  He  gave,  therefore,  the  exact  words:  "You 
will  drown,  but  will  not  know  you  drown." 

It  was  unwise  of  him.  He  wished  afterwards  he  had 
invented  a  happier  report,  or  had  kept  this  detail  back. 
"I'm  safe  in  Egypt,  anyhow,"  he  laughed.  "I  shall  be  a 
clever  man  if  I  can  find  enough  water  in  the  desert  to 
do  me  harm!"  And  all  the  way  from  Trieste  to  Alex- 
andria he  remembered  the  promise  she  had  extracted — 
that  he  would  never  once  go  on  the  Nile  unless  duty 
made  it  imperative  for  him  to  do  so.  He  kept  that 
promise  like  the  literal,  faithful  soul  he  was.  His  love 
was  equal  to  the  somewhat  quixotic  sacrifice  it  occasion- 
ally involved.  Fresh  water  in  Egypt  there  was  practically 
none  other,  and  in  any  case  the  natrum  works  where  his 
duty  lay  had  their  headquarters  some  distance  out  into 
the  desert.  The  river,  with  its  banks  of  welcome,  re- 
freshing verdure,  was  not  even  visible.,, 

Months  passed  quickly,  and  the  time  for  leave  came 
within  measurable  distance.  In  the  long  interval  luck 
had  played  the  cards  kindly  for  him,  vacancies  had  oc- 
curred, early  promotion  seemed  likely,  and  his  letters 
were  full  of  plans  to  bring  her  out  to  share  a  little  house 
of  their  own.  His  health,  however,  had  not  improved; 
the  dryness  did  not  suit  him ;  even  in  this  short  period  his 
blood  had  thinned,  his  nervous  system  deteriorated,  and, 
contrary  to  the  doctor's  prophecy,  the  waterless  air  had 
told  upon  his  sleep.  A  damp  climate  liked  him  best,  and 
once  the  sun  had  touched  him  with  its  fiery  finger. 

His  letters  made  no  mention  of  this.     He  described 


164         Day  and  Night  Stories 

the  life  to  her,  the  work,  the  sport,  the  pleasant  people, 
and  his  chances  of  increased  pay  and  early  marriage. 
And  a  week  before  he  sailed  he  rode  out  upon  a  final 
act  of  duty  to  inspect  the  latest  diggings  his  company 
were  making.  His  course  lay  some  twenty  miles  into 
the  desert  behind  El-Chobak  and  towards  the  limestone 
hills  of  Guebel  Haidi,  and  he  went  alone,  carrying  lijtich 
and  tea,  for  it  was  the  weekly  holiday  of  Friday,  and 
the  men  were  not  at  work. 

The  accident  was  ordinary  enough.  On  his  way  back 
in  the  heat  of  early  afternoon  his  pony  stumbled  against 
a  boulder  on  the  treacherous  desert  film,  threw  him 
heavily,  broke  the  girth,  bolted  before  he  could  seize  the 
reins  again,  and  left  him  stranded  some  ten  or  twelve 
miles  from  home.  There  was  a  pain  in  his  knee  that 
made  walking  difficult,  a  buzzing  in  his  head  that  troubled 
sight  and  made  the  landscape  swim,  while,  worse  than 
either,  his  provisions,  fastened  to  the  saddle,  had  van- 
ished with  the  frightened  pony  into  those  blazing  leagues 
of  sand.  He  was  alone  in  the  Desert,  beneath  the  piti- 
less afternoon  sun,  twelve  miles  of  utterly  exhausting 
country  between  him  and  safety. 

Under  normal  conditions  he  could  have  covered  the 
distance  in  four  hours,  reaching  home  by  dark;  but  his 
knee  pained  him  so  that  a  mile  an  hour  proved  the  best 
he  could  possibly  do.  He  reflected  a  few  minutes.  The 
wisest  course  was  to  sit  down  and  wait  till  the  pony 
told  its  obvious  story  to  the  stable,  and  help  should  come. 
And  this  was  what  he  did,  for  the  scorching  heat  and 
glare  were  dangerous ;  they  were  terrible ;  he  was  shaken 
and  bewildered  by  his  fall,  hungry  and  weak  into  the 
bargain ;  and  an  hour's  painful  scrambling  over  the  baked 
and  burning  little  gorges  must  have  speedily  caused 
complete  prostration.  He  sat  down  and  rubbed  his  ach- 
ing knee.  It  was  quite  a  little  adventure.  Yet,  though 
he  knew  the  Desert  might  not  be  lightly  trifled  with,  he 
felt  at  the  moment  nothing  more  than    this — and    the 


By  Water  165 

amusing  description  of  it  he  would  give  in  his  letter,  or 
— intoxicating  thought — by  word  of  mouth.  In  the  heat 
of  the  sun  he  began  to  feel  drowsy.  A  soft  torpor  crept 
over  him.    He  dozed.    He  fell  asleep. 

It  was  a  long,  a  dreamless  sleep  .  .  .  for  when  he 
woke  at  length  the  sun  had  just  gone  down,  the  dusk 
lay  awfully  upon  the  enormous  desert,  and  the  air  was 
chilly.  The  cold  had  waked  him.  Quickly,  as  though 
on  purpose,  the  red  glow  faded  from  the  sky;  the  first 
stars  shone;  it  was  dark;  the  heavens  were  deep  violet. 
He  looked  round  and  realised  that  his  sense  of  direction 
had  gone  entirely.  Great  hunger  was  in  him.  The  cold 
already  was  bitter  as  the  wind  rose,  but  the  pain  in  his 
knee  having  eased,  he  got  up  and  walked  a  little — and  in 
a  moment  lost  sight  of  the  spot  where  he  had  been  lying. 
The  shadowy  desert  swallowed  it.  "Ah,"  he  realised, 
**this  is  not  an  English  field  or  moor.  I'm  in  the 
Desert!"  The  safe  thing  to  do  was  to  remain  exactly 
where  he  was;  only  thus  could  the  rescuers  find  him; 
once  he  wandered  he  was  done  for.  It  was  strange  the 
search-party  had  not  yet  arrived.  To  keep  warm,  how- 
ever, he  was  compelled  to  move,  so  he  made  a  little  pile 
of  stones  to  mark  the  place,  and  walked  round  and  round 
it  in  a  circle  of  some  dozen  yards'  diameter.  He  limped 
badly,  and  the  hunger  gnawed  dreadfully ;  but,  after  all, 
the  adventure  was  not  so  terrible.  The  amusing  side  of 
it  kept  uppermost  still.  Though  fragile  in  body,  his  spirit 
was  not  unduly  timid  or  imaginative;  he  could  last  out 
the  night,  or,  if  the  worst  came  to  the  worst,  the  next 
day  as  well.  But  when  he  watched  the  little  group  of 
stones,  he  saw  that  there  were  dozens  of  them,  scores, 
hundreds,  thousands  of  these  little  groups  of  stones. 
The  desert's  face,  of  course,  is  thickly  strewn  with  them. 
The  original  one  was  lost  in  the  first  five  minutes.  So 
he  sat  down  again.  But  the  biting  cold,  and  the  wind 
that  licked  his  very  skin  beneath  the  light  clothing,  soon 
forced  him  up  again.     It  was  ominous;  and  the  night 


i66         Day  and  Night  Stories 

huge  and  shelterless.  The  shaft  of  green  zodiacal  light 
that  hung  so  strangely  in  the  western  sky  for  hours  had 
faded  away ;  the  stars  were  out  in  their  bright  thousands ; 
no  guide  was  anywhere;  the  wind  moaned  and  puffed 
among  the  sandy  mounds;  the  vast  sheet  of  desert 
stretched  appallingly  upon  the  world;  he  heard  the 
jackals  cry.  .  .  . 

And  with  the  jackals'  cry  came  suddenly  the  unwel- 
come realisation  that  no  play  was  in  this  adventure  any 
more,  but  that  a  bleak  reahty  stared  at  him  through  the 
surrounding  darkness.  He  faced  it — at  bay.  He  was 
genuinely  lost.  Thought  blocked  in  him.  "I  must  be 
calm  and  think,"  he  said  aloud.  His  voice  woke  no 
echo;  it  was  small  and  dead;  something  gigantic  ate  it 
instantly.  He  got  up  and  walked  again.  Why  did  no 
one  come?  Hours  had  passed.  The  pony  had  long  ago 
found  its  stable,  or — had  it  run  madly  in  another  direc- 
tion altogether?  He  worked  out  possibilities,  tightening 
his  belt.  The  cold  was  searching;  he  never  had  been, 
never  could  be  warm  again;  the  hot  sunshine  of  a  few 
hours  ago  seemed  the  merest  dream.  Unfamiliar  with 
hardship,  he  knew  not  what  to  do,  but  he  took  his  coat 
and  shirt  off,  vigorously  rubbed  his  skin  where  the  dried 
perspiration  of  the  afternoon  still  caused  clammy  shivers, 
swung  his  arms  furiously  like  a  London  cabman,  and 
quickly  dressed  again.  Though  the  wind  upon  his  bare 
back  was  fearful,  he  felt  warmer  a  little.  He  lay  down 
exhausted,  sheltered  by  an  overhanging  limestone  crag, 
and  took  snatches  of  fitful  dog's-sleep,  while  the  wind 
drove  overhead  and  the  dry  sand  pricked  his  skin.  One 
face  continually  was  near  him;  one  pair  of  tender  eyes; 
two  dear  hands  smoothed  him';  -he  smelt  the  perfume  of 
light  brown  hair.  It  was  all  natural  enough.  His  whole 
thought,  in  his  misery,  ran  to  her  in  England — England 
where  there  were  soft  fresh  grass,  big  sheltering  trees, 
hemlock  and  honeysuckle  in  the  hedges — while  the  hard 
black  Desert  guarded    him,    and    consciousness    dipped 


By  Water  167 

away  at  little  intervals  under  this  dry  and  pitiless 
Egyptian  sky.  ... 

It  was  perhaps  five  in  the  morning  when  a  voice  spoke 
and  he  started  up  with  a  horrid  jerk — the  voice  of  that 
clairvoyante  woman.  The  sentence  died  away  into  the 
darkness,  but  one  word  remained :  Water!  At  first  he 
wondered,  but  at  once  explanation  came.  Cause  and 
effect  were  obvious.  The  clue  was  physical.  His  body 
needed  water,  and  so  the  thought  came  up  into  his  mind. 
He  was  thirsty. 

This  was  the  moment  when  fear  first  really  touched 
him.  Hunger  was  manageable,  more  or  less — for  a  day 
or  two,  certainly.  But  thirst!  Thirst  and  the  Desert 
were  an  evil  pair  that,  by  cumulative  suggestion  gather- 
ing since  childhood  days,  brought  terror  in.  Once  in  the 
mind  it  could  not  be  dislodged.  In  spite  of  his  best 
efforts,  the  ghastly  thing  grew  passionately — ^because  his 
thirst  grew  too.  He  had  smoked  much ;  had  eaten  spiced 
things  at  lunch;  had  breathed  in  alkali  with  the  dry, 
scorched  air.  He  searched  for  a  cool  flint  pebble  to  put 
into  his  burning  mouth,  but  found  only  angular  scraps  of 
dusty  limestone.  There  were  no  pebbles  here.  The  cold 
helped  a  little  to  counteract,  but  already  he  knew  in  him- 
self subconsciously  the  dread  of  something  that  was 
coming.  What  was  it?  He  tried  to  hide  the  thought 
and  bury  it  out  of  sight.  The  utter  futility  of  his  tiny 
strength  against  the  power  of  the  universe  appalled  him. 
And  then  he  knew.  The  merciless  sun  was  on  the  way, 
already  rising.  Its  return  was  like  the  presage  of  execu- 
tion to  him.  .  .  . 

It  came.  With  true  horror  he  watched  the  marvellous 
swift  dawn  break  over  the  sandy  sea.  The  eastern  sky 
glowed  hurriedly  as  from  crimson  fires.  Ridges,  not 
noticeable  in  the  starlight,  turned  black  in  endless  series, 
like  flat-topped  billows  of  a  frozen  ocean.  Wide  streaks 
of  blue  and  yellow  followed,  as  the  sky  dropped  sheets 
of  faint  light  upon  the  wind-eaten  cliffs  and  showed  their 


i68         Day  and  Night  Stories 

under  sides.  They  did  not  advance ;  they  waited  till  the 
sun  was  up — and  then  they  moved ;  they  rose  and  sank ; 
they  shifted  as  the  sunshine  lifted  them  and  the  shadows 
crept  away.  But  in  an  hour  there  would  be  no  shadows 
any  more.     There  would  be  no  shade!   .    .    . 

The  little  groups  of  stones  began  to  dance.  It  was 
horrible.  The  unbroken,  huge  expanse  lay  round  him, 
warming  up,  twelve  hours  of  blazing  hell  to  come.  Al- 
ready the  monstrous  Desert  glared,  each  bit  familiar, 
since  each  bit  was  a  repetition  of  the  bit  before,  behind, 
on  either  side.  It  laughed  at  guidance  and  direction.  He 
rose  and  walked ;  for  miles  he  walked,  though  how  many, 
north,  south,  or  west,  he  knew  not.  The  frantic  thing 
was  in  him  now,  the  fury  of  the  Desert ;  he  took  its  pace, 
its  endless,  tireless  stride,  the  stride  of  the  burning, 
murderous  Desert  that  is — waterless.  He  felt  it  alive — a 
blindly  heaving  desire  in  it  to  reduce  him  to  its  condi- 
tionless,  awful  dryness.  He  felt — yet  kno^Ving  this  was 
feverish  and  not  to  be  believed — that  his  own  small  life 
lay  on  its  mighty  surface,  a  mere  dot  in  space,  a  mere 
heap  of  little  stones.  His  emotions,  his  fears,  his  hopes, 
his  ambition,  his  love — mere  bundled  group  of  little  un- 
important stones  that  danced  with  apparent  activity  for 
a  moment,  then  were  merged  in  the  undifferentiated  sur- 
face underneath.  He  was  included  in  a  purpose  greater 
than  his  own. 

The  will  made  a  plucky  effort  then.  "A  night  and 
a  day,"  he  laughed,  while  his  lips  cracked  smartingly 
with  the  stretching  of  the  skin,  "what  is  it?  Many  a 
chap  has  lasted  days  and  days  .  .  .  !"  Yes,  only  he  was 
not  of  that  rare  company.  He  was  ordinary,  unaccus- 
tomed to  privation,  weak,  untrained  of  spirit,  unac- 
quainted with  stern  resistance.  He  knew  not  how  to 
spare  himself.  The  Desert  struck  him  where  it  pleased 
— all  over.  It  played  with  him.  His  tongue  was  swollen ; 
the  parched  throat  could  not  swallow.  He  sank.  ...  An 
hour  he  lay  there,  just  wit  enough  in  him  to  choose  the 


By  Water  169 

top  of  a  mound  where  he  could  be  most  easily  seen.  He 
lay  two  hours,  three,  four  hours.  .  .  .  The  heat  blazed 
down  upon  him  like  a  furnace.  .  .  .  The  sky,  when  he 
opened  his  eyes  once,  was  empty  .  .  .  then  a  speck  be- 
came visible  in  the  blue  expanse;  and  presently  another 
speck.  They  came  from  nowhere.  They  hovered  very 
high,  almost  out  of  sight.  They  appeared,  they  disap- 
peared, they — reappeared.  Nearer  and  nearer  they 
swung  down,  in  sweeping  stealthy  circles  .  .  .  little 
dancing  groups  of  them,  miles  away  but  ever  drawing 
closer — the  vultures.  ,  .  . 

He  had  strained  his  ears  so  long  for  sounds  of  feet 
and  voices  that  it  seemed  he  could  no  longer  hear  at  all. 
Hearing  had  ceased  within  him.  Then  came  the  water- 
dreams,  with  their  agonising  torture.  He  heard  that 
.  .  .  heard  it  running  in  silvery  streams  and  rivulets 
across  green  English  meadows.  It  rippled  with  silvery 
music.  He  heard  it  splash.  He  dipped  hands  and  feet 
and  head  in  it — in  deep,  clear  pools  of  generous  depth. 
He  drank;  with  his  skin  he  drank,  not  with  mouth  and 
throat  alone.  Ice  clinked  in  effervescent,  sparkling  water 
against  a  glass.  He  swam  and  plunged.  Water  gushed 
freely  over  back  and  shoulders,  gallons  and  gallons  of  it, 
bathfuls  and  to  spare,  a  flood  of  gushing,  crystal,  cool, 
life-giving  liquid.  .  .  .  And  then  he  stood  in  a  beech 
wood  and  felt  the  streaming  deluge  of  delicious  summer 
rain  upon  his  face ;  heard  it  drip  luxuriantly  upon  a  mil- 
lion thirsty  leaves.  The  wet  trunks  shone,  the  damp 
moss  spread  its  perfume,  ferns  waved  heavily  in  the 
moist  atmosphere.  He  was  soaked  to  the  skin  in  it.  A 
mountain  torrent,  fresh  from  fields  of  snow,  foamed 
boiling  past,  and  the  spray  fell  in  a  shower  upon  his 
cheeks  and  hair.  He  dived — head  foremost.  .  .  .  Ah,  he 
was  up  to  the  neck  .  .  .  and  she  was  with  him ;  they  were 
under  water  together ;  he  saw  her  eyes  gleaming  into  his 
own  beneath  the  copious  flood. 

The  voice,  however,  was  not    hers.  .  .  .  "You    will 


170         Day  and  Night  Stories 

drown,  yet  you  will  not  know  you  drown.  .  .  .  !"  His 
swollen  tongue  called  out  a  name.  But  no  sound  was 
audible.  He  closed  his  eyes.  There  came  sweet  uncon- 
sciousness. .  .  . 

A  sound  in  that  instant  was  audible,  though.  It  was 
a  voice — voices — and  the  thud  of  animal  hoofs  upon  the 
sand.  The  specks  had  vanished  from  the  sky  as  mys- 
teriously as  they  came.  And,  as  though  in  answer  to 
the  sound,  he  made  a  movement — an  automatic,  un(.7n- 
scious  movement.  He  did  not  know  he  moved.  And  the 
body,  uncontrolled,  lost  its  precarious  balance.  He 
rolled ;  but  he  did  not  know  he  rolled.  Slowly,  over  the 
edge  of  the  sloping  mound  of  sand,  he  turned  sideways. 
Like  a  log  of  wood  he  slid  gradually,  turning  over  and 
over,  nothing  to  stop  him — to  the  bottom.  A  few  feet 
only,  and  not  even  steep;  just  steep  enough  to  keep  roll- 
ing slowly.  There  was  a — splash.  But  he  did  not  know 
there  was  a  splash. 

They  found  him  in  a  pool  of  water — one  of  these  rare 
pools  the  Desert  Bedouin  mark  "preciously  for  their  own. 
He  had  lain  within  three  yards  of  it  for  hours.  He  was 
drowned  .  .  .  but  he  did  not  know  he  drowned.  .  .  . 


XI 

H.  S.  H. 

In  the  mountain  Club  Hut,  to  which  he  had  escaped 
after  weeks  of  gaiety  in  the  capital,  Delane,  young  trav- 
elling EngHshman,  sat  alone,  and  listened  to  the  wind 
that  beat  the  pines  with  violence.  The  firelight  danced 
over  the  bare  stone  floor  and  raftered  ceiling,  giving  the 
room  an  air  of  movement,  and  though  the  solid  walls 
held  steady  against  the  wild  spring  hurricane,  the  can- 
nonading of  the  wind  seemed  to  threaten  the  foundations. 
For  the  mountain  shook,  the  forest  roared,  and  the 
shadows  had  a  way  of  running  everywhere  as  though  the 
little  building  trembled.  Delane  watched  and  listened. 
He  piled  the  logs  on.  From  time  to  time  he  glanced 
nervously  over  his  shoulder,  restless,  half  uneasy,  as  a 
burst  of  spray  from  the  branches  dashed  against  the 
window,  or  a  gust  of  unusual  vehemence  shook  the  door. 
Over-wearied  with  his  long  day's  climb  among  impos- 
sible conditions,  he  now  realised,  in  this  mountain  refuge, 
his  utter  loneliness ;  for  his  mind  gave  birth  to  that  un- 
welcome symptom  of  true  loneliness — that  he  was  not, 
after  all,  alone.  Continually  he  heard  steps  and  voices 
in  the  storm.  Another  wanderer,  another  climber  out  of 
season  like  himself,  would  presently  arrive,  and  sleep  was 
out  of  the  question  until  first  he  heard  that  knocking  on 
the  door.    Almost — he  expected  some  one. 

He  went  for  the  tenth  time  to  the  little  window.  He 
peered  forth  into  the  thick  darkness  of  the  dropping 
night,  shading  his  eyes  against  the  streaming  pane  to 
screen  the  firelight  in  an  attempt  to  see  if  another  climber 
— perhaps  a  climber  in  distress — were  visible.    The  sur- 

171 


172         Day  and  Night  Stories 

roundings  were  desolate  and  savage,  well  named  the 
Devil's  Saddle.  Black-faced  precipices,  streaked  with 
melting  snow,  rose  towering  to  the  north,  where  the 
heights  were  hidden  in  seas  of  vapour ;  waterfalls  poured 
into  abysses  on  two  sides;  a  wall  of  impenetrable  forest 
pressed  up  from  the  south;  and  the  dangerous  ridge  he 
had  climbed  all  day  slid  off  wickedly  into  a  sky  of  surg- 
ing cloud.  But  no  human  figure  was,  of  course,  distin- 
guishable, for  both  the  lateness  of  the  hour  and  the 
elemental  fury  of  the  night  rendered  it  most  unlikely. 
He  turned  away  with  a  start,  as  the  tempest  delivered  a 
blow  with  massive  impact  against  his  very  face.  Then, 
clearing  the  remnants  of  his  frugal  supper  from  the 
table,  he  hung  his  soaking  clothes  at  a  new  angle  before 
the  fire,  made  sure  the  door  was  fastened  on  the  inside, 
climbed  into  the  bunk  where  white  pillows  and  thick 
Austrian  blankets  looked  so  inviting,  and  prepared  finally 
for  sleep. 

"I  must  be  over-tired,"  he  sighed,  after  half  an  hour's 
weary  tossing,  and  went  back  to  make  up  the  sinking 
fire.  Wood  is  plentiful  in  these  climbers'  huts ;  he  heaped 
it  on.  But  this  time  he  lit  the  little  oil  lamp  as  well, 
realising — though  unwilling  to  acknowledge  it — that  it 
was  not  over-fatigue  that  banished  sleep,  but  this  un- 
welcome sense  of  expecting  some  one,  of  being  not  quite 
alone.  For  the  feeling  persisted  and  increased.  He  drew 
the  wooden  bench  close  up  to  the  fire,  turned  the  lamp 
as  high  as  it  would  go,  and  wished  unaccountably  for  the 
morning.  Light  was  a  very  pleasant  thing;  and  dark- 
ness now,  for  the  first  time  since  childhood,  troubled  him. 
It  was  outside ;  but  it  might  so  easily  come  in  and  swamp, 
obliterate,  extinguish.  The  darkness  seemed  a  positive 
thing.  Already,  somehow,  it  was  established  in  his  mind 
— this  sense  of  enormous,  aggressive  darkness  that  veiled 
an  undesirable  hint  of  personality.  Some  shadow  from 
the  peaks  or  from  the  forest,  immense  and  threatening, 
pervaded  all  his  thought.    "This  can't  be  entirely  nerves," 


H.  S.  H.  173 

he  whispered  to  himself.  'Tm  not  so  tired  as  all  that!" 
And  he  made  the  fire  roar.  He  shivered  and  drew  closer 
to  the  blaze.  "I'm  out  of  condition ;  that's  part  of  it," 
he  realised,  and  remembered  with  loathing  the  weeks  of 
luxurious  indulgence  just  behind  him. 

For  Delane  had  rather  wasted  his  year  of  educational 
travel.  Straight  from  Oxford,  and  well  supplied  with 
money,  he  had  first  saturated  his  mind  in  the  latest 
Continental  thought — the  science  of  France,  the  meta- 
physics and  philosophy  of  Germany — and  had  then  been 
caught  aside  by  the  gaiety  of  capitals  where  the  lights 
are  not  turned  out  at  midnight  by  a  Sunday  School 
police.  He  had  been  surfeited,  physically,  emotionally, 
and  intellectually,  till  his  mind  and  body  longed  hungrily 
for  simple  living  again  and  simple  teaching — above  all, 
the  latter.  The  Road  of  Excess  leads  to  the  Palace  of 
Wisdom — for  certain  temperaments  (as  Blake  forgot 
to  add),  of  which  Delane  was  one.  For  there  was  stuff 
in  the  youth,  and  the  reaction  had  set  in  with  violent 
abruptness.  His  system  rebelled.  He  cut  loose  ener- 
getically from  all  soft  delights,  and  craved  for  severity, 
pure  air,  solitude  and  hardship.  Clean  and  simple  con- 
ditions he  must  have  without  delay,  and  the  tonic  of 
physical  battling.  It  was  too  early  in  the  year  to  climb 
seriously,  for  the  snow  was  still  dangerous  and  the 
weather  wild,  but  he  had  chosen  this  most  isolated  of 
all  the  mountain  huts  in  order  to  make  sure  of  solitude, 
and  had  come,  without  guide  or  companion,  for  a  week's 
strenuous  life  in  wild  surroundings,  and  to  take  stock 
of  himself  with  a  view  to  full  recovery. 

And  all  day  long  as  he  climbed  the  desolate,  unsafe 
ridge,  his  mind — good,  wholesome,  natural  symptom — 
had  reverted  to  his  childhood  days,  to  the  solid  worldly 
wisdom  of  his  church-going  father,  and  to  the  early 
teaching  (oh,  how  sweet  and  refreshing  in  its  literal 
spirit!)  at  his  mother's  knee.  Now,  as  he  watched  the 
blazing  logs,  it  came  back  to  him  again  with  redoubled 


174         Day  and  Night  Stories 

force ;  the  simple,  precious,  old-world  stories  of  heaven 
and  hell,  of  a  paternal  Deity,  and  of  a  daring,  subtle, 
personal  devil 

The  interruption  to  his  thoughts  came  with  startling 
suddenness,  as  the  roaring  night  descended  against  the 
windows  with  a  thundering  violence  that  shook  the  walls 
and  sucked  the  flame  half-way  up  the  wide  stone  chimney. 
The  oil  lamp  flickered  and  went  out.  Darkness  invaded 
the  room  for  a  second,  and  Delane  sprang  from  his 
bench,  thinking  the  wet  snow  had  loosened  far  above 
and  was  about  to  sweep  the  hut  into  the  depths.  And 
he  was  still  standing,  trembling  and  uncertain,  in  the 
middle  of  the  room,  when  a  deep  and  sighing  hush  fol- 
lowed sharp  upon  the  elemental  outburst,  and  in  the 
hush,  like  a  whisper  after  thunder,  he  heard  a  curious 
steady  sound  that,  at  first,  he  thought  must  be  a  foot- 
step by  the  door.  It  was  then  instantly  repeated.  But  it 
was  not  a  step.  It  was  some  one  knocking  on  the  heavy 
oaken  panels — a  firm,  authoritative  sound,  as  though 
the  new  arrival  had  the  right  to  enter  and  was  already 
impatient  at  the  delay. 

The  Englishman  recovered  himself  instantly,  realis- 
ing with  keen  relief  the  new  arrival — at  last. 

"Another  climber  like  myself,  of  course,"  he  said,  "or 
perhaps  the  man  who  comes  to  prepare  the  hut  for  others. 
The  season  has  begun."  And  he  went  over  quickly,  with- 
out a  further  qualm,  to  unbolt  the  door. 

"Forgive!"  he  exclaimed  in  German,  as  he  threw  it 
wide,  "I  was  half  asleep  before  the  fire.  It  is  a  terrible 
night.  Come  in  to  food  and  shelter,  for  both  are  here, 
and  you  shall  share  such  supper  as  I  possess." 

And  a  tall,  cloaked  figure  passed  him  swiftly  with  a 
gust  of  angry  wind  from  the  impenetrable  blackness  of 
the  world  beyond.  On  the  threshold,  for  a  second,  his 
outline  stood  full  in  the  blaze  of  firelight  with  the  sheet 
of  darkness  behind  it,  stately,  erect,  commanding,  his 
cloak  torn   fiercely  by   the   wind,   but   the   face   hidden 


H.  S.  H.  175 

by  a  low-brimmed  hat;  and  an  instant  later  the  door 
shut  with  resounding  clamour  upon  the  hurricane,  and 
the  two  men  turned  to  confront  one  another  in  the  little 
room. 

Delane  then  realised  two  things  sharply,  both  of  them 
fleeting  impressions,  but  acutely  vivid :  First,  that  the 
outside  darkness  seemed  to  have  entered  and  established 
itself  between  him  and  the  new  arrival;  and,  secondly, 
that  the  stranger's  face  was  difficult  to  focus  for  clear 
sight,  although  the  covering  hat  was  now  removed. 
There  was  a  blur  upon  it  somewhere.  And  this  the 
Englishman  ascribed  partly  to  the  flickering  effect  of  fire- 
light, and  partly  to  the  lightning  glare  of  the  man's 
masterful  and  terrific  eyes,  which  made  his  own  sight 
waver  in  some  curious  fashion  as  he  gazed  upon  him. 
These  impressions,  however,  were  but  momentary  and 
passing,  due  doubtless  to  the  condition  of  his  nerves 
and  to  the  semi-shock  of  the  dramatic,  even  theatrical 
entrance.  Delane's  senses,  in  this  wild  setting,  were 
guilty  of  exaggeration.  For  now,  while  helping  the  man 
remove  his  cloak,  speaking  naturally  of  shelter,  food, 
and  the  savage  weather,  he  lost  this  first  distortion  and 
his  mind  recovered  sane  proportion.  The  stranger,  after 
all,  though  striking,  was  not  of  appearance  so  uncom- 
mon as  to  cause  alarm ;  the  light  and  the  low  doorway  had 
touched  his  stature  with  illusion.  He  dwindled.  And 
the  great  eyes,  upon  calmer  subsequent  inspection,  lost 
their  original  fierce  lightning.  The  entering  darkness, 
moreover,  was  but  an  effect  of  the  upheaving  night  behind 
him  as  he  strode  across  the  threshold.  The  closed  door 
proved  it. 

And  yet,  as  Delane  continued  his  quieter  examination, 
there  remained,  he  saw,  the  startling  quality  which  had 
caused  that  first  magnifying  in  his  mind.  His  senses, 
while  reporting  accurately,  insisted  upon  this  arresting 
and  uncommon  touch:  there  was,  about  this  late  wan- 


176         Day  and  Night  Stories 

derer  of  the  night,  some  evasive,  lofty  strangeness  that  set 
him  utterly  apart  from  ordinary  men. 

The  Englishman  examined  him  searchingly,  surrepti- 
tiously, but  with  a  touch  of  passionate  curiosity  he  could 
not  in  the  least  account  for  nor  explain.  There  were  con- 
tradictions of  perplexing  character  about  him.  For  the 
first  presentment  had  been  of  splendid  youth,  while  on 
the  face,  though  vigorous  and  gloriously  handsome,  he 
now  discerned  the  stamp  of  tremendous  age.  It  was 
worn  and  tired.  While  radiant  with  strength  and  health 
and  power,  it  wore  as  well  this  certain  signature  of  deep 
exhaustion  that  great  experience  rather  than  physical  ex- 
perience brings.  Moreover,  he  discovered  in  it,  in  some 
way  he  could  not  hope  to  describe,  man,  woman,  and 
child.  There  was  a  big,  sad  earnestness  about  it,  yet  a 
touch  of  humour  too ;  patience,  tenderness,  and  sweetness 
held  the  mouth ;  and  behind  the  high  pale  forehead  intel- 
lect sat  enthroned  and  watchful.  In  it  were  both  love  and 
hatred,  longing  and  despair;  an  expression  of  being  ever 
on  the  defensive,  yet  hugely  mutinous ;  an  air  both  hunted 
and  beseeching ;  great  knowledge  and  great  woe. 

Dtelane  gave  up  the  search,  aware  that  something  unal- 
terably splendid  stood  before  him.  Solemnity  and  beauty 
swept  him  too.  His  was  never  the  grotesque  assumption 
that  man  must  be  the  highest  being  in  the  universe,  nor 
that  a  thing  is  a  miracle  merely  because  it  has  never  hap- 
pened before.  He  groped,  while  explanation  and  analy- 
sis both  halted.  "A  great  teacher,"  thought  fluttered 
through  him,  "or  a  mighty  rebel !  A  distinguished  per- 
sonality beyond  all  question !  Who  can  he  be  ?"  There 
was  something  regal  that  put  respect  upon  his  imagination 
instantly.  And  he  remembered  the  legend  of  the  country- 
side that  Ludwig  of  Bavaria  was  said  to  be  about  when 
nights  were  very  wild.  He  wondered.  Into  his  speech 
and  manner  crept  unawares  an  attitude  of  deference  that 
was  almost  reverence,  and  with  it — whence  came  this 
other  quality  ? — a  searching  pity. 


H.  S.  H.  177 

"You  must  be  wearied  out,"  he  said  respectfully,  busy- 
ing himself  about  the  room,  "as  well  as  cold  and  wet. 
This  fire  will  dry  you,  sir,  and  meanwhile  I  will  prepare 
quickly  such  food  as  there  is,  if  you  will  eat  it."  For  the 
other  carried  no  knapsack,  nor  was  he  clothed  for  the 
severity  of  mountain  travel. 

"I  have  already  eaten,"  said  the  stranger  courteously, 
"and,  with  my  thanks  to  you,  I  am  neither  wet  nor  tired. 
The  afflictions  that  I  bear  are  of  another  kind,  though 
ones  that  you  shall  more  easily,  I  am  sure,  relieve." 

He  spoke  as  a  man  whose  words  set  troops  in  action, 
and  Delane  glanced  at  him,  deeply  moved  by  the  sur- 
prising phrase,  yet  hardly  marvelling  that  it  should  be  so. 
He  found  no  ready  answer.  But  there  was  evidently  ques- 
tion in  his  look,  for  the  other. continued,  and  this  time  with 
a  smile  that  betrayed  sheer  winning  beauty  as  of  a  tender 
woman : 

"I  saw  the  light  and  came  to  it.  It  is  unusual — at  this 
time." 

His  voice  was  resonant,  yet  not  deep.  There  was  a 
ringing  quality  about  it  that  the  bare  room  emphasised. 
It  charmed  the  young  Englishman  inexplicably.  Also,  it 
woke  in  him  a  sense  of  infinite  pathos. 

"You  are  a  climber,  sir,  like  myself,"  Delane  resumed, 
lifting  his  eyes  a  moment  uneasily  from  the  coffee  he 
brewed  over  a  corner  of  the  fire.  "You  know  this  neigh- 
bourhood, perhaps  ?  Better,  at  any  rate,  than  I  can  know 
it?"  His  German  halted  rather.  He  chose  his  words 
with  difficulty.    There  was  uncommon  trouble  in  his  mind. 

"I  know  all  wild  and  desolate  places,"  replied  the  other, 
in  perfect  English,  but  with  a  wintry  mournfulness  in  his 
voice  and  eyes,  "for  I  feel  at  home  in  them,  and  their 
stern  companionship  my  nature  craves  as  solace.  But, 
unlike  yourself,  I  am  no  climber." 

^The  heights  have  no  attraction  for  you?"  asked  De- 
lane, as  he  mingled  steaming  milk  and  coffee  in  the 
wooden  bowl,  marvelling  what  brought  him  then  so  high 


178         Day  and  Night  Stories 

above  the  valleys.  "It  is  their  difficulty  and  danger  that 
fascinate  me  always.  I  find  the  loneliness  of  the  summits 
intoxicating  in  a  sense." 

And,  regardless  of  refusal,  he  set  the  bread  and  meat 
before  him,  the  apple  and  the  tiny  packet  of  salt,  then 
turned  away  to  place  the  coffee  pot  beside  the  fire  again. 
But  as  he  did  so  a  singular  gesture  of  the  other  caught 
his  eyes.  Before  touching  bowl  or  plate,  the  stranger 
took  the  fruit  and  brushed  his  lips  with  it.  He  kissed 
it,  then  set  it  on  the  ground  and  crushed  it  into  pulp  be- 
neath his  heel.  And,  seeing  this,  the  young  Englishman 
knew  something  dreadfully  arrested  in  his  mind,  for,  as 
he  looked  away,  pretending  the  act  was  unobserved,  a 
thing  of  ice  and  darkness  moved  past  him  through  the 
room,  so  that  the  pot  trembled  in  his  hand,  rattling  sharply 
against  the  hearthstone  where  he  stooped.  He  could  only 
interpret  it  as  an  act  of  madness,  and  the  myth  of  the  sad, 
drowned  monarch  wandering  through  this  enchanted 
region,  pressed  into  him  again  unsought  and  urgent.  It 
was  a  full  minute  before  he  had  control  of  his  heart  and 
hand  again. 

The  bowl  was  half  emptied,  and  the  man  was  smiling 
— this  time  the  smile  of  a  child  who  implores  the  comfort 
of  enveloping  and  understanding  arms. 

"I  am  a  wanderer  rather  than  a  cHmber,"  he  was  saying, 
as  though  there  had  been  no  interval,  "for,  though  the 
lonely  summits  suit  me  well,  I  now  find  in  them  only — 
terror.  My  feet  lose  their  sureness,  and  my  head  its 
steady  balance.  I  prefer  the  hidden  gorges  of  these  moun- 
tains, and  the  shadows  of  the  covering  forests.  My 
days" — his  voice  drew  the  loneliness  of  uttermost  space 
into  its  piteous  accents — "are  passed  in  darkness.  I  cari^ 
never  climb  again." 

He  spoke  this  time,  indeed,  as  a  man  whose  nerve  was 
gone  for  ever.    It  was  pitiable  almost  to  tears.    And  De- 
lane,  unable  to  explain  the  amazing  contradictions,  felt  • 
recklessly,  furiously  drawn  to  this  trapped  wanderer  with 


H.  S.  H.  179 

the  mien  of  a  king  yet  the  air  and  speech  sometimes  of 
a  woman  and  sometimes  of  an  outcast  child. 

*'Ah,  then  you  have  known  accidents,"  Delane  replied 
with  outer  calmness,  as  he  lit  his  pipe,  trying  in  vain  to 
keep  his  hand  as  steady  as  his  voice.  "You  have  been  in 
one  perhaps.     The  effect,  I  have  been  told,  is " 

The  power  and  sweetness  in  that  resonant  voice  took 
his  breath  away  as  he  heard  it  break  in  upon  his  own 
uncertain  accents: 

*T  have — fallen,"  the  stranger  replied  impressively,  as 
the  rain  and  wind  wailed  past  the  building  mournfully, 
"yet  a  fall  that  was  no  part  of  any  accident.  For  it  was 
no  common  fall,"  the  man  added  with  a  magnificent  ges- 
ture of  disdain,  "while  yet  it  broke  my  heart  in  two." 
He  stooped  a  little  as  he  uttered  the  next  words  with  a 
crying  pathos  that  an  outcast  woman  might  have  used. 
"I  am,"  he  said,  "engulfed  in  intolerable  loneliness.  I  can 
never  climb  again." 

With  a  shiver  impossible  to  control,  half  of  terror,  half 
of  pity,  Delane  moved  a  step  nearer  to  the  marvellous 
stranger.  The  spirit  of  Ludwig,  exiled  and  distraught, 
had  gripped  his  soul  with  a  weakening  terror;  but  now 
sheer  beauty  lifted  him  above  all  personal  shrinking. 
There  seemed  some  echo  of  lost  divinity,  worn,  wild  yet 
grandiose,  through  which  this  significant  language 
strained  towards  a  personal  message — for  himself. 

"In  loneliness?"  he  faltered,  sympathy  rising  in  a  flood. 

"For  my  Kingdom  that  is  lost  to  me  for  ever,"  met  him 
in  deep,  throbbing  tones  that  set  the  air  on  fire.  "For 
my  imperial  ancient  heights  that  jealousy  took  from  me 


The  stranger  paused,  with  an  indescribable  air  of 
broken  dignity  and  pain. 

Outside  the  tempest  paused  a  moment  before  the  awful 
elemental  crash  that  followed.  A  bellowing  of  many 
winds  descended  like  artillery  upon  the  world.  A  burst 
of  smoke  rushed   from  the  fireplace  about  them  both, 


i8o         Day  and  Night  Stories    ' 

shrouding  the  stranger  momentarily  in  a  flying  veil.  And 
Delane  stood  up,  uncomfortable  in  his  very  bones.  "What 
can  it  be  ?"  he  asked  himself  sharply.  *'Who  is  this  being 
that  he  should  use  such  language?"  He  watched  alarm 
chase  pity,  aware  that  the  conversation  held  something 
beyond  experience.  But  the  pity  returned  in  greater  and 
ever  greater  flood.  And  love  surged  through  him  too. 
It  was  significant,  he  remembered  afterwards,  that  he  felt 
it  incumbent  upon  himself  to  stand.  Curious,  too,  how 
the  thought  of  that  mad,  drowned  monarch  haunted  mem- 
ory with  such  persistence.  Some  vast  emotion  that  he 
could  not  name  drove  out  his  subsequent  words.  The 
smoke  had  cleared,  and  a  strange,  high  stillness  held  the 
world.  The  rain  streamed  down  in  torrents,  isolating 
these  two  somehow  from  the  haunts  of  men.  And  the 
Englishman  stared  then  into  a  countenance  grown  mighty 
with  woe  and  loneliness.  There  stood  darkly  in  it  this 
incommunicable  magnificence  of  pain  that  mingled  awe 
with  the  pity  he  had  felt.  The  kingly  eyes  looked  clear 
into  his  own,  completing  his  subjugation  out  of  time.  "I 
would  follow  you,"  ran  his  thought  upon  its  knees,  ''fol- 
low you  with  obedience  for  ever  and  ever,  even  into  a 
last  damnation.  For  you  are  sublime.  You  shall  come 
again  into  your  Kingdom,  if  my  own  small  worship " 

Then  blackness  sponged  the  reckless  thought  away.  He 
spoke  in  its  place  a  more  guarded,  careful  thing : 

"I  am  aware,"  he  faltered,  yet  conscious  that  he  bowed, 
"of  standing  before  a  Great  One  of  some  world  unknown 
to  me.  Who  he  may  be  I  have  but  the  privilege  of  won- 
dering. He  has  spoken  darkly  of  a  Kingdom  that  is  lost. 
Yet  he  is  still,  I  see,  a  Monarch."  And  he  lowered  his 
head  and  shoulders  involuntarily. 

For  an  instant,  then,  as  he  said  it,  the  eyes  before  him 
flashed  their  original  terrific  lightnings.  The  darkness 
of  the  common  world  faded  before  the  entrance  of  an 
Outer  Darkness.     From  gulfs  of  terror  at  his  feet  rose 


H.  S.  H.  i8i 

shadows  out  of  the  night  of  time,  and  a  passionate  anguish 
as  of  sudden  madness  seized  his  heart  and  shook  it. 

He  listened  breathlessly  for  the  words  that  followed. 
It  seemed  some  wind  of  unutterable  despair  passed  in  the 
breath  from  those  non-human  lips : 

**I  am  still  a  Monarch,  yes ;  but  my  Kingdom  is  taken 
from  me,  for  I  have  no  single  subject.  Lost  in  a  loneli- 
ness that  lies  out  of  space  and  time,  I  am  become  a  throne- 
less  Ruler,  and  my  hopelessness  is  more  than  I  can  bear." 
The  beseeching  pathos  of  the  voice  tore  him  in  two.  The 
Deity  himself,  it  seemed,  stood  there  accused  of  jealousy, 
of  sin  and  cruelty.  The  stranger  rose.  The  power  about 
him  brought  the  picture  of  a  planet,  throned  in  mid- 
heaven  and  poised  beyond  assault.  "Not  otherwise," 
boomed  the  startling  words  as  though  an  avalanche  found 
syllables,  "could  I  now  show  myself  to — you." 

Delane  was  trembling  horribly.  He  felt  the  next 
words  slip  off  his  tongue  unconsciously.  The  shatter- 
ing truth  had  dawned  upon  his  soul  at  last. 

"Then  the  light  you  saw,  and  came  to ?"  he  whis- 
pered. 

"Was  the  light  in  your  heart  that  guided  me,"  came 
the  answer,  sweet,  beguiling  as  the  music  in  a  woman's 
tones,  "the  light  of  your  instant,  brief  desire  that  held 
love  in  it."  He  made  an  opening  movement  with  his 
arms  as  he  continued,  smiling  like  stars  in  summer. 
"For  you  summoned  me;  summoned  me  by  your  dear  and 
precious  belief :  how  dear,  how  precious,  none  can  know 
but  I  who  stand  before  you." 

His  figure  drew  up  with  an  imperial  air  of  proud 
dominion.  His  feet  were  set  among  the  constellations. 
The  opening  movement  of  his  arms  continued  slowly. 
And  the  music  in  his  tones  seemed  merged  in  distant 
thunder. 

"For  your  single,  brief  belief,"  he  smiled  with  the 
grandeur  of  a  condescending  Emperor,  "shall  give  my 
vanished  Kingdom  back  to  me." 


i82         Day  and  Night  Stories 

And  with  an  air  of  native  majesty  he  held  his  hand 
out — to  be  kissed. 

The  black  hurricane  of  night,  the  terror  of  frozen 
peaks,  the  yawning  horror  of  the  great  abyss  outside — all 
three  crowded  into  the  Englishman's  mind  with  a  slashing 
impact  that  blocked  dehvery  of  any  word  or  action.  It 
was  not  that  he  refused,  it  was  not  that  he  withdrew, 
but  that  Life  stood  paralysed  and  rigid.  The  flow 
stopped  dead  for  the  first  time  since  he  had  left  his 
mother's  womb.  The  God  in  him  was  turned  to  stone 
and  rendered  ineffective.  For  an  appalling  instant  God 
was  not. 

He  realised  the  stupendous  moment.  Before  him, 
drinking  his  little  soul  out  merely  by  his  Presence,  stood 
one  whose  habit  of  mind,  not  alone  his  external  accidents, 
was  imperial  with  black  prerogative  before  the  first 
man  drew  the  breath  of  life.  August  procedure  was  na- 
tive to  his  inner  process  of  existence.  The  stars  and 
confines  of  the  universe  owned  his  sway  before  he  fell, 
to  trifle  away  the  dreary  little  centuries  by  haunting  the 
minds  of  feeble  men  and  women,  by  hiding  himself  in 
nursery  cupboards,  and  by  grinning  with  stained  gar- 
goyles from  the  roofs  of  city  churches.   .    .    . 

And  the  lad's  life  stammered,  flickered,  threatened  to 
go  out  before  the  enveloping  terror  of  the  revelation. 

'T  called  to  you  .  .  .  but  called  to  you  in  play,"  thought 
whispered  somewhere  deep  below  the  level  of  any  speech, 
yet  not  so  low  that  the  audacious  sound  of  it  did  not 
crash  above  the  elements  outside;  "for  .  .  .  till  now 
.  .  .  you  have  been  to  me  but  a  .  .  .  coated  bogy 
.  .  .  that  my  brain  disowned  with  laughter  .  .  .  and 
my  heart  thought  picturesque.  If  you  are  here  .  .  . 
alive!    May  God  forgive  me  for  my  ..." 

It  seemed  as  though  tears — the  tears  of  love  and  pro- 
found commiseration — drowned  the  very  seed  of  thought 
itself. 

A  sound  stopped  him  that  was  like  a  collapse  in  heaven. 


H.  S.  H.  183 

Some  crashing,  as  of  a  ruined  world,  passed  splintering- 
through  his  little  timid  heart.  He  did  not  yield,  but  he 
understood — with  an  understanding  which  seemed  the 
delicate  first  sign  of  yielding — the  seductiveness  of  evil, 
the  sweet  delight  of  surrendering  the  Will  with  utter 
recklessness  to  those  swelling  forces  which  disintegrate 
the  herioc  soul  in  man.  He  remembered.  It  was  true. 
In  the  reaction  from  excess  he  had  definitely  called  upon 
his  childhood's  teaching  with  a  passing  moment  of  genu- 
ine belief.  And  now  that  yearning  of  a  fraction  of  a 
second  bore  its  awful  fruit.  The  luscious  Capitals  where 
he  had  rioted  passed  in  a  coloured  stream  before  his  eyes ; 
the  Wine,  the  Woman,  and  the  Song  stood  there  before 
him,  clothed  in  that  Power  which  lies  insinuatingly  dis- 
guised behind  their  little  passing  show  of  innocence. 
Their  glamour  donned  this  domino  of  regal  and  virile 
grandeur.  He  felt  entangled  beyond  recovery.  The 
idea  of  God  seemed  sterile  and  without  reality.  The  one 
real  thing,  the  one  desirable  thing,  the  one  possible,  strong 
and  beautiful  thing — was  to  bend  his  head  and  kiss  those 
imperial  fingers.  He  moved  noiselessly  towards  the 
Hand.  He  raised  his  own  to  take  it  and  lift  it  towards 
his  mouth 

When  there  rose  in  his  mind  with  startling  vividness 
a  small,  soft  picture  of  a  child's  nursery,  a  picture  of  a 
little  boy,  kneeling  in  scanty  night-gown  with  pink  up- 
turned soles,  and  asking  ridiculous,  audacious  things  of  a 
shining  Figure  seated  on  a  summer  cloud  above  the  kitch- 
en-garden walnut  tree. 

The  tiny  symbol  flashed  and  went  its  way,  yet  not  be- 
fore it  had  lit  the  entire  world  with  glory.  For  there 
came  an  absolutely  routing  power  with  it.  In  that  half- 
forgotten  instant's  craving  for  the  simple  teaching  of  his 
childhood  days,  Belief  had  conjured  with  two  immense 
traditions.  This  was  the  second  of  them.  The  appear- 
ance of  the  one  had  inevitably  produced  the  passage  of 
its  opposite.   .    .    . 


1 84         Day  and  Night  Stories 

And  the  Hand  that  floated  in  the  air  before  him  to  be 
kissed  sank  slowly  down  below  the  possible  level  of  his 
lips.  He  shrank  away.  Though  laughter  tempted  some- 
thing in  his  brain,  there  still  clung  about  his  heart  the  first 
aching,  pitying  terror.  But  size  retreated,  dwindling 
somehow  as  it  went.  The  wind  and  rain  obliterated 
every  other  sound ;  yet  in  that  bare,  unfurnished  room  of 
a  climber's  mountain  hut,  there  was  a  silence,  above  the 
roar,  that  drank  in  everything  and  broke,  the  back  of 
speech.  In  opposition  to  this  masquerading  splendour 
Delane  had  set  up  a  personal,  paternal  Deity. 

'T  thought  of  you,  perhaps,"  cried  the  voice  of  self- 
defence,  *'but  I  did  not  call  to  you  with  real  belief.  And, 
by  the  name  of  God,  I  did  not  summon  you.  For  your 
sweetness,  as  your  power,  sickens  me ;  and  your  hand  is 
black  with  the  curses  of  all  the  mothers  in  the  world, 
whose  prayers  and  tears " 

He  stopped  dead,  overwhelmed  by  the  cruelty  of  his 
reckless  utterance. 

And  the  Other  moved  towards  him  slowly.  It  was 
like  the  summit  of  some  peaked  and  terrible  height  that 
moved.     He  spoke.     He  changed  appallingly. 

"But  /  claim,"  he  roared,  "your  heart.  I  claim  you 
by  that  instant  of  belief  you  felt.  For  by  that  alone  you 
shall  restore  to  me  my  vanished  Kingdom.  You  shall 
worship  me." 

In  the  countenance  was  a  sudden  awful  power;  but 
behind  the  stupefying  roar  there  was  weakness  in  the 
voice  as  of  an  imploring  and  beseeching  child.  Again, 
deep  love  and  searching  pity  seared  the  Englishman's 
heart  as  he  replied  in  the  gentlest  accents  he  could  find 
to  master : 

"And  I  claim  you,"  he  said,  "by  my  understanding 
sympathy,  and  by  my  sorrow  for  your  God- forsaken  lone- 
liness, and  by  my  love.  For  no  Kingdom  built  on  hate 
can  stand  against  the  love  you  would  deny " 

Words  failed  him  then,  as  he  saw  the  majesty  fade 


H.  S.  H.  185 

slowly  from  the  face,  grown  small  and  shadowy.  One 
last  expression  of  desperate  energy  in  the  eyes  struck 
lightnings  from  the  smoky  air,  as  with  an  abandoned 
movement  of  the  entire  figure,  he  drew  back,  it  seemed, 
towards  the  door  behind  him. 

Delane  moved  slowly  after  him,  opening  his  arms. 
Tenderness  and  big  compassion  flung  wide  the  gates  of 
love  within  him.  He  found  strange  language,  too,  al- 
though actual*  spoken  words  did  not  produce  them  fur- 
ther than  his  entrails  where  they  had  their  birth : 

"Toys  in  the  world  are  plentiful.  Sire,  and  you  may  have 
them  for  your  masterpiece  of  play.  But  you  must  seek 
them  where  they  still  survive;  in  the  churches,  and  in 
isolated  lands  where  thought  lies  unawakened.  For  they 
are  the  children's  blocks  of  make-believe  whose  palaces, 
like  your  once  tremendous  kingdom,  have  no  true  exist- 
ence for  the  thinking  mind." 

And  he  stretched  his  hands  towards  him  with  the  ges- 
ture of  one  who  sought  to  help  and  save,  then  paused  as 
he  realised  that  his  arms  enclosed  sheer  blackness,  with 
the  emptiness  of  wind  and  driving  rain. 

For  the  door  of  the  hut  stood  open,  and  Delane  bal- 
anced on  the  threshold,  facing  the  sheet  of  night  above 
the  abyss.  He  heard  the  waterfalls  in  the  valley  far 
below.  The  forest  flapped  and  tossed  its  myriad 
branches.  Cold  draughts  swept  down  from^  spectral 
fields  of  melting  snow  above;  and  the  blackness  turned 
momentarily  into  the  semblance  of  towers  and  bastions 
of  thick  beaten  gloom.  Above  one  soaring  turret,  then, 
a  space  of  sky  appeared,  swept  naked  by  a  violent,  lost 
wind — an  opening  of  purple  into  limitless  distance.  For 
one  second,  amid  the  vapours,  it  was  visible,  empty  and 
untenanted.  The  next,  there  sailed  across  its  small 
diameter  a  falling  Star.  With  an  air  of  slow  and  end- 
less leisure,  yet  at  the  same  time  with  terrific  speed,  it 
dived  behind  the  ragged  curtain  of  the  clouds,  and  the 


1 86         Day  and  Night  Stories 

space  closed  up  again.  Blackness  returned  upon  the 
heavens. 

And  through  this  blackness,  plunging  into  that  abyss 
of  woe  whence  he  had  momentarily  risen,  the  figure  of 
the  marvellous  stranger  melted  utterly  away.  Delane, 
for  a  fleeting  second,  was  aware  of  the  earnestness  in 
the  sad,  imploring  countenance;  of  its  sweetness  and  its 
power  so  strangely  mingled ;  of  it  mysterious  grandeur ; 
and  of  its  pathetic  childishness.  But,  already,  it  was 
sunk  into  interminable  distance.  A  star  that  would  be 
baleful,  yet  was  merely  glorious,  passed  on  its  endless 
wandering  among  the  teeming  systems  of  the  universe. 
Behind  the  fixed  and  steady  stars,  secure  in  their  ap- 
pointed places,  it  set.  It  vanished  into  the  pit  of 
unknown  emptiness.     It  was  gone. 

"God  help  you!"  sighed  across  the  sea  of  wailing 
branches,  echoing  down  the  dark  abyss  below.  "God 
give  you  rest  at  last !" 

For  he  saw  a  princely,  nay,  an  imperial  Being,  home- 
less for  ever,  and  for  ever  wandering,  hunted  as  by 
keen  remorseless  winds  about  a  universe  that  held  no 
corner  for  his  feet,  his  majesty  unworshipped,  his  reign 
a  mockery,  his  Court  unfurnished,  and  his  courtiers  mere 
shadows  of  deep  space.   .    .    . 

And  a  thin,  grey  dawn,  stealing  up  behind  clearing 
summits  in  the  east,  crept  then  against  the  windows  of 
the  mountain  hut.  It  brought  with  it  a  treacherous,  sharp 
air  that  made  the  sleeper  draw  another  blanket  near  to 
shelter  him  from  the  sudden  cold.  For  the  fire  had  died 
out,  and  an  icy  draught  sucked  steadily  beneath  the  door- 
way. 


XII 

A  BIT  OF  WOOD 

He  found  himself  in  Meran  with  some  cousins  who  had 
various  sHght  ailments,  but,  being  rich  and  imaginative, 
had  gone  to  a  sanatorium  to  be  cured.  But  for  its 
sanatoria,  Meran  might  be  a  cheerful  place;  their 
ubiquity  reminds  a  healthy  man  too  often  that  the  air 
is  really  good.  Being  well  enough  himself,  except  for  a 
few  mental  worries,  he  went  to  a  Gasthaus  in  the  neigh- 
bourhood. In  the  sanatorium  his  cousins  complained  bit- 
terly of  the  food,  the  ignorant  ''sisters,"  the  inattentive 
doctors,  and  the  idiotic  regulations  generally — which 
proves  that  people  should  not  go  to  a  sanatorium  unless 
they  are  really  ill.  However,  they  paid  heavily  for  being 
there,  so  felt  that  something  was  being  accomplished,  and 
were  annoyed  when  he  called  each  day  for  tea,  and  told 
them  cheerfully  how  much  better  they  looked — which 
proved,  again,  that  their  ailments  were  slight  and  quite 
curable  by  the  local  doctor  at  home.  With  one  of  the 
ailing  cousins,  a  rich  and  pretty  girl,  he  believed  himself 
in  love. 

It  was  a  three  weeks'  business,  and  he  spent  his  morn- 
ings walking  in  the  surrounding  hills,  his  mind  reflective, 
analytical,  and  ambitious,  as  with  a  man  in  love.  He 
thought  of  thousands  of  things.  He  mooned.  Once,  for 
instance,  he  paused  beside  a  rivulet  to  watch  the  butter- 
cups dip,  and  asked  himself,  ''Will  she  be  like  this  when 
we're  married — so  anxious  to  be  Veil  that  she  thinks 
fearfully  all  the  time  of  getting  ill?"  For  if  so,  he  felt 
he  would  be  bored.  He  knew  himself  accurately  enough 
to  realise  that  he  never  could  stand  that.     Yet  money  was 

187 


1 88         Day  and  Night  Stories 

a  wonderful  thing  to  have,  and  he,  already  thirty-five,  had 
little  enough !  *' Am  I  influenced  by  her  mon-iy,  then  ?" 
he  asked  himself  .  .  .  and  so  went  on  to  ask  and  won- 
der about  many  things  besides,  for  he  was  of  a  reflective 
temperament  and  his  father  had  been  a  minor  poet.  And 
Doubt  crept  in.  He  felt  a  chill.  He  was  not  much  of 
a  man,  perhaps,  thin-blooded  and  unsuccessful,  rather  a 
dreamer,  too,  into  the  bargain.  He  had  £icmd  a  year  of 
his  own  and  a  position  in  a  Philanthropic  Institution  (due 
to  influence)  with  a  nominal  salary  attached.  He  meant 
to  keep  the  latter  after  marriage.  He  would  work  just 
the  same.    Nobody  should  ever  say  that  of  him — -— ! 

And  as  he  sat  on  the  fallen  tree  beside  the  rivulet,  idly 
knocking  stones  into  the  rushing  water  with  his  stick, 
he  reflected  upon  those  banal  truisms  that  epitomise  two- 
thirds  of  life.  The  way  little  unimportant  things  can 
change  a  person's  whole  existence  was  the  one  his 
thought  just  now  had  fastened  on.  His  cousin's  chill  and 
headache,  for  instance,  caught  at  a  gloomy  picnic  on  the 
Campagna  three  weeks  before,  had  led  to  her  going  into 
a  sanatorium  and  being  advised  that  her  heart  was  weak, 
that  she  had  a  tendency  to  asthma,  that  gout  was  in  her 
system,  and  that  a  treatment  of  X-rays,  radium,  sun- 
baths  and  light  baths,  violet  rays,  no  meat,  complete  rest, 
with  big  daily  fees  to  experts  with  European  reputations, 
were  imperative.  ''From  that  chill,  sitting  a  moment 
too  long  in  the  shadow  of  a  forgotten  Patrician's  tomb," 
he  reflected,  "has  come  all  this" — "all  this"  including  his 
doubt  as  to  whether  it  was  herself  or  her  mdney  that  he 
loved,  whether  he  could  stand  living  with  her  always, 
whether  he  need  really  keep  his  work  on  after  marriage, 
in  a  word,  his  entire  life  and  future,  and  her  own  as 
well — "all  from  that  tiny  chill  three  weeks  ago!"  And 
he  knocked  with  his  stick  a  little  piece  of  sawn-off  board 
that  lay  beside  the  rushing  water. 

Upon  that  bit  of  wood  his  mind,  his  mood,  then  fas- 
tened itself.     It  was  triangular,  a  piece  of  sawn-off  wood, 


A  Bit  of  Wood  189 

brown  with  age  and  ragged.  Once  it  had  been  part  of  a 
triumphant,  hopeful  sapHng  on  the  mountains;  then, 
when  thirty  years  of  age,  the  men  had  cut  it  down ;  the 
rest  of  it  stood  somewhere  now,  at  this  very  moment,  in 
the  walls  of  the  house.  This  extra  bit  was  cast  away 
as  useless ;  it  served  no  purpose  anywhere ;  it  was  slowly 
rotting  in  the  sun.  But  each  tap  of  the  stick,  he  noticed, 
turned  it  sideways  without  sending  it  over  the  edge  into 
the  rushing  water.  It  was  obstinate.  "It  doesn't  want 
to  go  in,"  he  laughed,  his  father's  little  talent  cropping  out 
in  him,  ''but,  by  Jove,  it  shall !"  And  he  pushed  it  with 
his  foot.  But  again  it  stopped,  stuck  end-ways  against  a 
stone.  He  then  stooped,  picked  it  up,  and  threw  it  in. 
It  plopped  and  splashed,  and  went  scurrying  away  down- 
hill with  the  bubbling  water.  ''Even  that  scrap  of  use- 
less wood,"  he  reflected,  rising  to  continue  his  aimless 
walk,  and  still  idly  dreaming,  "even  that  bit  of  rubbish 
may  have  a  purpose,  and  may  change  the  life  of  some- 
one— somewhere!" — and  then  went  strolling  through  the 
fragrant  pine  woods,  crossing  a  dozen  similar  streams, 
and  hitting  scores  of  stones^  and  scraps  and  fir  cones  as 
he  went — till  he  finally  reached  his  Gasthaus  an  hour 
later,  and  found  a  note  from  her:  "We  shall  expect  you 
about  three  o'clock.  We  thought  of  going  for  a  drive. 
The  others  feel  so  much  better." 

It  was  a  revealing  touch — the  way  she  put  it  on  "the 
others."  He  made  his  mind  up  then  and  there — thus  tiny 
things  divide  the  course  of  life — that  he  could  never  be 
happy  with  such  an  "affected  creature."  He  went  for  that 
drive,  sat  next  to  her  consuming  beauty,  proposed  to  her 
passionately  on  the  way  back,  was  accepted  before  he 
could  change  his  mind,  and  is  now  the  father 
of  several  healthy  children — and  just  as  much  afraid  of 
getting  ill,  or  of  their  getting  ill,  as  she  was  fifteen  years 
before.  The  female,  of  course,  matures  long,  long  be- 
fore the  male,  he  reflected,  thinking  the  matter  over  in 
his  study  once.  .    .    . 


190         Day  and  Night  Stories 

And  that  scrap  of  wood  he  idly  set  in  motion  out  of 
impulse  also  went  its  destined  way  upon  the  hurrying 
water  that  never  dared  to  stop.  Proud  of  its  new-found 
motion,  it  bobbed  down  merrily,  spinning  and  turning  for 
a  mile  or  so,  dancing  gaily  over  sunny  meadows,  brushing 
the  dipping  buttercups  as  it  passed,  through  vineyards, 
woods,  and  under  dusty  roads  in  neat,  cool  gutters,  and 
tumbling  headlong  over  little  waterfalls,  until  it  neared 
the  plain.  And  so,  finally,  it  came  to  a  wooden  trough 
that  led  off  some  of  the  precious  water  to  a  sawmill 
where  bare-armed  men  did  practical  and  necessary  things. 
At  the  parting  of  the  ways  its  angles  delayed  it  for  a 
moment,  undecided  which  way  to  take.  It  wobbled. 
And  upon  that  moment's  wobbling  hung  tragic  issues — 
issues  of  life  and  death. 

Unknowing  (yet  assuredly  not  unknown),  it  chose  the 
trough.  It  swung  light-heartedly  into  the  tearing  sluice. 
It  whirled  with  the  gush  of  water  towards  the  wheel, 
banged,  spun,  trembled,  caught  fast  in  the  side  where 
the  cogs  just  chanced  to  be — and  abruptly  stopped  the 
wheel.  At  any  other  spot  the  pressure  of  the  water  must 
have  smashed  it  into  pulp,  and  the  wheel  have  continued 
as  before;  but  it  was  caught  in  the  one  place  where  the 
various  tensions  held  it  fast  immovably.  It  stopped  the 
wheel,  and  so  the  machinery  of  the  entire  mill.  It 
jammed  like  iron.  The  particular  angle  at  which  the 
double-handed  saw,  held  by  two  weary  and  perspiring 
men,  had  cut  it  off  a  year  before  just  enabled  it  to  fit 
and  wedge  itself  with  irresistible  exactitude.  The  pres- 
sure of  the  tearing  water  combined  with  the  weight  of  the 
massive  wheel  to  fix  it  tight  and  rigid.  And  in  due 
course  a  workman — it  was  the  foreman  of  the  mill — 
came  from  his  pc^^t  inside  to  make  investigations.  He 
discovered  the  irritating  item  that  caused  the  trouble. 
He  put  his  weight  in  a  certain  way ;  he  strained  his  hefty 
muscles;  he  swore — and  the  scrap  of  wood  was  easily 
dislodged.     He  fished  the  morsel  out,  and  tossed  it  on  the 


A  Bit  of  Wood  191 

bank,  and  spat  on  it.  The  great  wheel  started  with  a 
mighty  groan.  But  it  started  a  fraction  of  a  second 
before  he  expected  it  would  start.  He  overbalanced, 
clutching  the  revolving  framework  with  a  frantic  effort, 
shouted,  swore,  leaped  at  nothing,  and  fell  into  the  pour- 
ing flood.  In  an  instant  he  was  turned  upside  down, 
sucked  under,  drowned.  He  was  engaged  to  be  married, 
and  had  put  by  a  thousand  kronen  in  the  Tiroler  Spar- 
hank.     He  was  a  sober  and  hard-working  man.   .    .    . 

There  was  a  paragraph  in  the  local  paper  two  days 
later.  The  Englishman,  asking  the  porter  of  his  Gast- 
haus  for  something  to  wrap  up  a  present  he  was  taking 
to  his  cousin  in  the  sanatorium,  used  that  very  issue. 
As  he  folded  its  crumpled  and  recalcitrant  sheets  with 
sentimental  care  about  the  precious  object  his  eye  fell 
carelessly  upon  the  paragraph.  Being  of  an  idle  and 
reflective  temperament,  he  stopped  to  read  it — it  was 
headed  "Ungliicksfall,"  and  his  poetic  eye,  inherited  from 
his  foolish,  rhyming  father,  caught  the  pretty  expression 
''fliessandes  Wasser."  He  read  the  first  few  lines.  Some 
fellow,  with  a  picturesque  Tyrolese  name,  had  been 
drowned  beneath  a  mill-wheel;  he  was  popular  in  the 
neighbourhood,  it  seemed ;  he  had  saved  some  money,  and 
was  just  going  to  be  married.  It  was  very  sad.  ''Our 
readers'  sympathy"  was  with  him.  .  .  .  And,  being  of 
a  reflective  temj>erament,  the  Englishman  thought  for  a 
moment,  while  he  went  on  wrapping  up  the  parcel.  He 
wondered  if  the  man  had  really  loved  the  girl,  whether 
she,  too,  had  money,  and  whether  they  would  have  had 
lots  of  children  and  been  happy  ever  afterwards.  And 
then  he  hurried  out  towards  the  sanatorium.  *T  shall 
be  late,"  he  reflected.  "Such  little,  unimportant  things 
delay  one  .  .  . !" 


XIII 
A  VICTIM  OF  HIGHER  SPACE 

"There's  a  hextraordinary  gentleman  to  see  you,  sir," 
said  the  new  man. 

''Why  'extraordinary'  ?"  asked  Dr.  Silence,  drawing  the 
tips  of  his  thin  fingers  through  his  brown  beard.  His 
eyes  twinkled  pleasantly.  "Why  'extraordinary,'  Bar- 
ker?" he  repeated  encouragingly,  noticing  the  perplexed 
expression  in  the  man's  eyes. 

"He's  so — so  thin,  sir.  I  could  hardly  see  'im  at  all 
— at  first.  He  was  inside  the  house  before  I  could  ask 
the  name,"  he  added,  remembering  strict  orders. 

"And  who  brought  him  here  ?" 

"He  come  alone,  sir,  in  a  closed  cab.  He  pushed  by 
me  before  I  could  say  a  word — mal<mg  no  noise  not  what 
I  could  hear.     He  seemed  to  move  so  soft  like " 

The  man  stopped  short  with  obvious  embarrassment,  as 
though  he  had  already  said  enough  to  jeopardise  his  new 
situation,  but  trying  hard  to  show  that  he  remembered 
the  instructions  and  warnings  he  had  received  with 
regard  to  the  admission  of  strangers  not  properly  ac- 
credited. 

"And  where  is  the  gentleman  now?"  asked  Dr.  Silence, 
turning  away  to  conceal  his  amusement. 

"I  really  couldn't  exactly  say,  sir.  I  left  him  standing 
in  the  'all " 

The  doctor  looked  up  sharply.  "But  why  in  the  hall, 
Barker?  Why  not  in  the  waiting-room?"  He  fixed  his 
piercing  though  kindly  eyes  on  the  man's  face.  "Did  he 
frighten  you  ?"  he  asked  quickly. 

"I  think  he  did,  sir,  if  I  may  say  so.     I  seemed  to 

192 


A  Victim  of  Higher  Space      193 

lose  sight  of  him,  as  it  were "     The  man  stammered, 

evidently  convinced  by  now  that  he  had  earned  his  dis- 
missal. "He  come  in  so  funny,  just  like  a  cold  wind," 
he  added  boldly,  setting  his  heels  at  attention  and  looking 
his  master  full  in  the  face. 

The  doctor  made  an  internal  note  of  the  man's  halting 
description ;  he  was  pleased  that  the  slight  signs  of  psy- 
chic intuition  which  had  induced  him  to  engage  Barker 
had  not  entirely  failed  at  the  first  trial.  Dr.  Silence 
sought  for  this  qualification  in  all  his  assistants,  from 
secretary  to  serving  man,  and  if  it  surrounded  him  with 
a  somewhat  singular  crew,  the  drawbacks  were  more 
than  compensated  for  on  the  whole  by  their  occasional 
flashes  of  insight. 

"So  the  gentleman  made  you  feel  queer,  did  he?" 

"That  was  it,  I  think,  sir,"  repeated  the  man  stolidly. 

"And  he  brings  no  kind  of  introduction  to  me — no  let- 
ter or  anything  ?"  asked  the  doctor,  with  feigned  surprise, 
as  though  he  knew  what  was  coming. 

The  man  fumbled,  both  in  mind  and  pockets,  and  finally 
produced  an  envelope. 

"I  beg  pardon,  sir,"  he  said,  greatly  flustered ;  "the  gen- 
tleman handed  me  this  for  you." 

It  was  a  note  from  a  discerning  friend,  who  had  never 
yet  sent  him  a  case  that  was  not  vitally  interesting  from 
one  point  or  another. 

"Please  see  the  bearer  of  this  note,"  the  brief  message 
ran,  "though  I  doubt  if  even  you  can  do  much  to  help 
him." 

John  Silence  paused  a  moment,  so  as  to  gather  from 
the  mind  of  the  writer  all  that  lay  behind  the  brief  words 
of  the  letter.  Then  he  looked  up  at  his  servant  with  a 
graver  expression  than  he  had  yet  worn. 
'  ''Go  back  and  find  this  gentleman,"  he  said,  "and  show 
\v.m  into  the  green  study.  Do  not  reply  to  his  question, 
or  speak  more  than  actually  necessary;  but  think  kind, 
helpful,  sympathetic  thoughts  as  strongly  as  you  can, 


194         Day  and  Night  Stories. 

Barker.  You  remember  what  I  told  you  about  the  im- 
portance of  thinking,  when  I  engaged  you.  Put  curiosity 
out  of  your  mind,  and  think  gently,  sympathetically, 
affectionately,  if  you  can." 

He  smiled,  and  Barker,  who  had  recovered  his  com- 
posure in  the  doctor's  presence,  bowed  silently  and  went 
out. 

There  were  two  different  reception-rooms  in  Dr. 
Silence's  house.  One  (intended  for  persons  who  im- 
agined they  needed  spiritual  assistance  when  really  they 
were  only  candidates  for  the  asylum)  had  padded  walls, 
and  was  well  supplied  with  various  concealed  contriv- 
ances by  means  of  which  sudden  violence  could  be  in- 
stantly met  and  overcome.  It  was,  however,  rarejy  used. 
The  other,  intended  for  the  reception  of  genuine  cases 
of  spiritual  distress  and  out-of-the-way  afflictions  of  a 
psychic  nature,  was  entirely  draped  and  furnished  in  a 
soothing  deep  green,  calculated  to  induce  calmness  and 
repose  of  mind.  And  this  room  was  the  one  in  which 
Dr.  Silence  interviewed  the  majority  of  his  "queer"  cases, 
and  the  one  into  which  he  had  directed  Barker  to  show 
his  present  caller. 

To  begin  with,  the  arm-chair  in  which  the  patient  was 
always  directed  to  sit,  was  nailed  to  the  floor,  since  its  im- 
movability tended  to  impart  this  same  excellent  character- 
istic to  the  occupant.  Patients  invariably  grew  excited 
when  talking  about  themselves,  and  their  excitement 
tended  to  confus:  their  thoughts  and  to  exaggerate  their 
language.  The  inflexibility  of  the  chair  helped  to  coun- 
teract this.  After  repeated  endeavours  to  drag  it  for- 
ward, or  push  it  back,  they  ended  by  resigning  themselves 
to  sitting  quietly.  And  with  the  futility  of  fidgeting  there 
followed  a  calmer  state  of  mind. 

Upon  the  floor,  and  at  intervals  in  the  wall  immediately 
behind,  were  certain  tiny  green  buttons,  practically  u.i- 
noticeable,  which  on  being  pressed  permitted  a  soothin^^ 
and  persuasive  narcotic  to  rise  invisibly  about  the  occu- 


A  Victim  of  Higher  Space      195 

pant  of  the  chair.  The  effect  upon  the  excitable  patient 
was  rapid,  admirable,  and  harmless.  The  green  study 
was  further  provided  with  a  secret  spy-hole;  for  John 
Silence  liked  when  possible  to  observe  his  patient's  face 
before  it  had  assumed  that  mask  the  features  of  the 
human  countenance  invariably  wear  in  the  presence  of 
another  person.  A  man  sitting  alone  wears  a  psychic 
expression ;  and  this  expression  is  the  man  himself.  It 
disappears  the  moment  another  person  joins  him.  And 
Dr.  Silence  often  learned  more  from  a  few  moments' 
secret  observation  of  a  fac^  than  from  hours  of  conversa- 
tion with  its  owner  afterwards. 

A  very  light,  almost  dancing,  step  followed  Barker's 
heavy  tread  towards  the  green  room,  and  a  moment  after- 
wards the  man  came  in  and  announced  that  the  gentleman 
was  waiting.     He  was  still  pale  and  his  manner  nervous. 

"Never  mind,  Barker,"  the  doctor  said  kindly ;  *'if  you 
were  not  psychic  the  man  would  have  had  no  effect  upon 
you  at  all.  You  only  need  training  and  development. 
And  when  you  have  learned  to  interpret  these  feelings 
and  sensations  better,  you  will  feel  no  fear,  but  only  a 
great  sympathy." 

''Yes,  sir;  thank  you,  sir!"  And  Barker  bowed  and 
made  his  escape,  while  Dr.  Silence,  an  amused  smile  lurk- 
ing about  the  corners  of  his  mouth,  made  his  way  noise- 
lessly down  the  passage  and  put  his  eye  to  the  spy-hole  in 
the  door  of  the  green  study. 

This  spy-hole  was  so  placed  that  it  commanded  a  view 
of  almost  the  entire  room,  and,  looking  through  it,  the 
doctor  saw  a  hat,  gloves,  and  umbrella  lying  on  a  chair 
by  the  table,  but  searched  at  first  in  vain  for  their  owner. 

The  windows  were  boih  closed  and  a  brisk  fire  burned 
in  the  grate.  There  were  various  signs — signs  intelli- 
gible at  least  to  a  keenly  intuitive  soul — that  the  room 
was  occupied,  yet  so  far  as  human  beings  were  concerned, 
it  was  empty,  utterly  empty.  No  one  sat  in  the  chairs; 
no  one  stood  on  the  mat  before  the  fire;  there  was  no 


196  Day  and  Night  Stories 

sign  even  that  a  patient  was  anywhere  close  against  the 
wall,  examining  the  Bocklin  reproductions — as  patients 
so  often  did  when  they  thought  they  were  alone — and 
therefore  rather  difficult  to  see  from  the  spy-hole.  Ordi- 
narily speaking,  there  was  no  one  in  the  room.  It  was 
undeniable. 

Yet  Dr.  Silence  was  quite  well  aware  that  a  human 
being  was  in  the  room.  His  psychic  apparatus  never 
failed  in  letting  him  know  the  proximity  of  an  incarnate 
or  discarnate  being.  Even  in  the  dark  he  could  tell  that. 
And  he  now  knew  positively  that  his  patient — the  patient 
who  had  alarmed  Barker,  and  had  then  tripped  down  the 
corridor  with  that  dancing  footstep — was  somewhere 
concealed  within  the  four  walls  commanded  by  his  spy- 
hole. He  also  realised — and  this  was  most  unusual — 
that  this  individual  whom  he  desired  to  watch  knew  that 
he  was  being  watched.  And,  further,  that  the  stranger 
himself  was  also  watching!  In  fact,  that  it  was  he,  the 
doctor,  who  was  being  observed — and  by  an  observer  as 
keen  and  trained  as  himself. 

An  inkling  of  the  true  state  of  the  case  began  to  dawn 
upon  him,  and  he  was  on  the  verge  of  entering — indeed, 
his  hand  already  touched  the  door-knob — when  his  eye, 
still  glued  to  the  spy-hole,  detected  a  slight  movement. 
Directly  opposite,  between  him  and  the  fireplace,  some- 
thing stirred.  He  watched  very  attentively  and  made 
certain  that  he  was  not  mistaken.  An  object  on  the  man- 
telpiece— it  was  a  blue  vase — disappeared  from  view.  It 
passed  out  of  sight  together  with  the  portion  of  the  mar- 
ble mantelpiece  on  which  it  rested.  Next,  that  part  of 
the  fire  and  grate  and  brass  fender  immediately  below  it 
vanished  entirely,  as  though  a  slice  had  been  taken  clean 
out  of  them. 

Dr.  Silence  then  understood  that  something  between 
him  and  these  objects  was  slowly  coming  into  being, 
something  that  concealed  them  and  obstructed  his  vision 


A  Victim  of  Higher  Space      197 

by  inserting  itself  in  the  line  of  sight  between  them  and 
himself. 

He  quietly  awaited  further  results  before  going  in. 

First  he  saw  a  thin  perpendicular  line  tracing  itself 
from  just  above  the  height  of  the  clock  and  continuing 
downwards  till  it  reached  the  woolly  fire-mat.  This  line 
grew  wider,  broadened,  grew  solid.  It  was  no  shadow ; 
it  was  something  substantial.  It  defined  itself  more  and 
more.  Then  suddenly,  at  the  top  of  the  line,  and  about 
on  a  level  with  the  face  of  the  clock,  he  saw  a  round 
luminous  disc  gazing  steadily  at  him.  It  was  a  human 
eye,  looking  straight  into  his  own,  pressed  there  against 
the  spy-hole.  And  it  was  bright  with  intelligence.  Dr. 
Silence  held  his  breath  for  a  moment — and  stared  back 
at  it. 

Then,  like  some  one  moving  out  of  deep  shadow  into 
light,  he  saw  the  figure  of  a  man  come  sliding  sideways 
into  view,  a  whitish  face  following  the  eye,  and  the  per- 
pendicular line  he  had  first  observed  broadening  out  and 
developing  into  the  complete  figure  of  a  human  being.  It 
was  the  patient.  He  had  apparently  been  standing  there 
in  front  of  the  fire  all  the  time.  A  second  eye  had  fol- 
lowed the  first,  and  both  of  them  stared  steadily  at  the 
spy-hole,  sharply  concentrated,  yet  with  a  sly  twinkle  of 
humour  and  amusement  that  made  it  impossible  for  the 
doctor  to  maintain  his  position  any  longer. 

He  opened  the  door  and  went  in  quickly.  As  he  did 
so  he  noticed  for  the  first  time  the  sound  of  a  German 
band  coming  in  gaily  through  the  open  ventilators.  In 
some  intuitive,  unaccountable  fashion  the  music  con- 
nected itself  with  the  patient  he  was  about  to  interview. 
This  sort  of  prevision  was  not  unfamiliar  to  him.  It 
always  explained  itself  later. 

The  man,  he  saw,  was  of  middle  age  and  of  very  ordi- 
nary appearance;  so  ordinary,  in  fact,  that  he  was  diffi^ 
cult  to  describe — his  6nly  peculiarity  being  his  extreme 
thinness.  Pleasant — that  is,  good — vibrations  issued  from 


198  Day  and  Night  Stories 

his  atmosphere  and  met  Dr.  Silence  as  he  advanced  to 
greet  him,  yet  vibrations  alive  v^^ith  currents  and  dis- 
charges betraying  the  perturbed  and  disordered  condi- 
tion of  his  mind  and  brain.  There  was  evidently  some- 
thing wholly  out  of  the  usual  in  the  state  of  his  thoughts. 
Yet,  though  strange,  it  was  not  altogether  distressing;  it 
was  not  the  impression  that  the  broken  and  violent  atmos- 
phere of  the  insane  produces  upon  the  mind.  Dr.  Silence 
realised  in  a  flash  that  here  was  a  case  of  absorbing  in- 
terest that  might  require  all  his  powers  to  handle  prop- 
erly. 

"I  was  watching  you  through  my  little  peep-hole — as 
you  saw,'*  he  began,  with  a  pleasant  smile,  advancing  to 
shake  hands.  "I  find  it  of  the  greatest  assistance  some- 
times  " 

But  the  patient  interrupted  him  at  once.  His  voice 
was  hurried  and  had  odd,  shrill  changes  in  it,  breaking 
from  high  to  low  in  unexpected  fashion.  One  moment 
it  thundered,  the  next  it  almost  squeaked. 

'*I  understand  without  explanation,"  he  broke  in  rap- 
idly. **You  get  the  true  note  of  a  man  in  this  way — 
when  he  thinks  himself  unobserved.  I  quite  agree. 
Only,  in  my  case,  I  fear,  you  saw  very  little.  My  case,  as 
you  of  course  grasp,  Dr.  Silence,  is  extremely  peculiar, 
uncomfortably  peculiar.  Indeed,  unless  Sir  William  had 
positively  assured  me " 

"My  friend  has  sent  you  to  me,"  the  doctor  interrupted 
gravely,  with  a  gentle  note  of  authority,  "and  that  is  quite 
sufficient.    Pray,  be  seated,  Mr. " 

"Mudge — Racine  Mudge,"  returned  the  other. 

"Take  this  comfortable  one,  Mr.  Mudge,"  leading  him 
to  the  fixed  chair,  "and  tell  me  your  condition  in  your 
own  way  and  at  your  own  pace.  My  whole  day  is  at 
your  service  if  you  require  it." 

Mr.  Mudge  moved  towards  the  chair  in  question  and 
then  hesitated. 

"You  will  promise  me  not  to  use  the  narcotic  buttons," 


A  Victim  of  Higher  Space      199 

he  said,  before  sitting  down.  "I  do  not  need  them.  Also 
I  ought  to  mention  that  anything  you  think  of  vividly  will 
reach  my  mind.  That  is  apparently  part  of  my  peculiar 
case."  He  sat  down  with  a  sigh  and  arranged  his  thin 
legs  and  body  into  a  position  of  comfort.  Evidently  he 
was  very  sensitive  to  the  thoughts  of  others,  for  the  pic- 
ture of  the  green  buttons  had  only  entered  the  doctor's 
mind  for  a  second,  yet  the  other  had  instantly  snapped  it 
up.  Dr.  Silence  noticed,  too,  that  Mr.  Mudge  held  on 
tightly  with  both  hands  to  the  arms  of  the  chair. 

"I'm  rather  glad  the  chair  is  nailed  to  the  floor,"  he 
remarked,  as  he  settled  himself  more  comfortably.  *'It 
suits  me  admirably.  The  fact  is — and  this  is  my  case  in 
a  nutshell — which  is  all  that  a  doctor  of  your  marvellous 
development  requires — the  fact  is,  Dr.  S'ience,  I  am  a 
victim  of  Higher  Space.  That's  what's  the  matter  with 
me — Higher  Space!" 

The  two  looked  at  each  other  for  a  space  in  silence, 
the  little  patient  holding  tightly  to  the  arms  of  the  chair 
which  "suited  him  admirably,"  and  looking  up  with  star- 
ing eyes,  his  atmosphere  positively  trembling  with  the 
waves  of  some  unknown  activity ;  while  the  doctor  smiled 
kindly  and  sympathetically,  and  put  his  whole  person  as 
far  as  possible  into  the  mental  condition  of  the  other. 

"Higher  Space,"  repeated  Mr.  Mudge,  "that's  what  it 
is.     Now,  do  you  think  you  can  help  me  with  thatf 

There  was  a  pause  during  which  the  men's  eyes  steadily 
searched  down  below  the  surface  of  their  respective  per- 
sonalities.    Then  Dr.  Silence  spoke. 

"I  am  quite  sure  I  can  help,"  he  answered  quietly; 
"sympathy  must  always  help,  and  suffering  always  owns 
my  sympathy.  I  see  you  have  suffered  cruelly.  You 
must  tell  me  all  about  your  case,  and  when  I  hear  the 
gradual  steps  by  which  you  reached  this  strange  condi- 
tion, I  have  no  doubt  I  can  be  of  assistance  to  you." 

He  drew  a  chair  up  beside  his  interlocutor  and  laid  a 


200         Day  and  Night  Stories 

hand  on  his  shoulder  for  a  moment.  His  whole  being 
radiated  kindness,  intelligence,  desire  to  help. 

**For  instance,"  he  went  on,  '*I  feel  sure  it  was  the 
result  of  no  mere  chance  that  you  became  familiar  with 
the  terrors  of  what  you  term  Higher  Space;  for  Higher 
Space  is  no  mere  external  measurem.ent.  It  is,  of  course, 
a  spiritual  state,  a  spiritual  condition,  an  inner  develop- 
ment, and  one  .that  we  must  recognise  as  abnormal,  since 
it  is  beyond  the  reach  of  the  world  at  the  present  stage 
of  evolution.     Higher  Space  is  a  mythical  state." 

''Oh !"  cried  the  other,  rubbing  his  birdHke  hands  with 
pleasure,  "the  relief  it  is  to  be  to  talk  to  some  one  who 
can  understand!  Of  course  what  you  say  is  the  utter 
truth.  And  you  are  right  that  no  mere  chance  led  me  to 
my  present  condition,  but,  on  the  other  hand,  prolonged 
and  deliberate  study.  Yet  chance  in  a  sense  now  gov- 
erns it.  I  mean,  my  entering  the  condition  of  Higher 
Space  seems  to  depend  upon  the  chance  of  this  and  that 
circumstance.  For  instance,  the  mere  sound  of  that 
German  band  sent  me  off.  Not  that  all  music  will  do 
so,  but  certain  sounds,  certain  vibrations,  at  once  key  me 
up  to  the  requisite  pitch,  and  off  I  go.  Wagner's  music 
always  does  it,  and  that  band  must  have  been  playing  a 
stray  bit  of  Wagner.  But  I'll  come  to  all  that  later. 
Only,  first,  I  must  ask  you  to  send  away  your  man  from 
the  spy-hole." 

John  Silence  looked  up  with  a  start,  for  Mr.  Mudge's 
back  was  to  the  door,  and  there  was  no  mirror.  He  saw 
the  brown  eye  of  Barker  glued  to  the  little  circle  of  glass, 
and  he  crossed  the  room  without  a  word  and  snapped 
down  the  black  shutter  provided  for  the  purpose,  and 
then  heard  Barker  shuffle  away  along  the  passage. 

"Now,"  continued  the  little  man  in  the  chair,  "I  can 
begin.  You  have  managed  to  put  me  completely  at  my 
ease,  and  I  feel  I  may  tell  you  my  whole  case  without 
shame  or  reserve.  You  will  understand.  But  you  must 
be  patient  with  me  if  I  go  into  details  that  are  already 


A  Victim  of  Higher  Space     201 

familiar  to  you — details  of  Higher  Space,  I  mean — and  if 
I  seem  stupid  when  I  have  to  describe  things  that  tran- 
scend the  power  of  language  and  are  really  therefore 
indescribable." 

"My  dear  friend,"  put  in  the  other  calmly,  "that  goes 
without  saying.  To  know  Higher  Space  is  an  experience 
that  defies  description,  and  one  is  obliged  to  make  use  of 
more  or  less  intelligible  symbols.  But,  pray,  proceed. 
Your  vivid  thoughts  will  tell  me  more  than  your  halting 
words." 

An  immense  sigh  of  relief  proceeded  from  the  little 
figure  half  lost  in  the  depths  of  the  chair.  Such  intelli- 
gent sympathy  meeting  him  half-way  was  a  new  experi- 
ence to  him,  and  it  touched  his  heart  at  once.  He  leaned 
back,  relaxing  his  tight  hold  of  the  arms,  and  began  in 
his  thin,  scale-like  voice. 

"My  mother  was  a  Frenchwoman,  and  my  father  an 
Essex  bargeman,"  he  said  abruptly.  "Hence  my  name 
— Racine  and  Mudge.  My  father  died  before  I  ever  saw 
him.  My  mother  inherited  money  from  her  Bordeaux 
relations,  and  when  she  died  soon  after,  I  was  left  alone 
with  wealth  and  a  strange  freedom.  I  had  no  guardian, 
trustees,  sisters,  brothers,  or  any  connection  in  the  world 
to  look  after  me.  I  grew  up,  therefore,  utterly  without 
education.  This  much  was  to  my  advantage;  I  learned 
none  of  that  deceitful  rubbish  taught  in  sc\iOols,  and  so 
had  nothing  to  unlearn  when  I  awakened  to  my  true  love 
— mathematics,  higher  mathematics  and  higher  geotnetry. 
These,  however,  I  seemed  to  know  instinctively.  It  was 
like  the  memory  of  what  I  had  deeply  studied  before ;  the 
principles  were  in  my  blood,  and  I  simply  raced  through 
the  ordinary  stages,  and  beyond,  and  then  did  the  same 
with  geometry.  Afterwards,  when  I  read  the  books  on 
these  subjects,  I  understood  how  swift  and  undeviating, 
the  knowledge  had  come  back  to  me.  It  Was  simply 
memory.     It  was  simply  re-collecting  the  memories  of 


202         Day  and  Night  Stories 

what  I  had  known  before  in  a  previous  existence  and  re- 
quired no  books  to  teach  me." 

In  his  growing  excitement,  Mr.  Mudge  attempted  to 
drag  the  chair  forward  a  Httle  nearer  to  his  listener,  and 
then  smiled  faintly  as  he  resigned  himself  instantly  again 
to  its  immovability,  and  plunged  anew  into  the  recital 
of  his  singular  "disease." 

"The  audacious  speculations  of  Bolyai,  the  amazing 
theories  of  Gauss — that  through  a  point  more  than  one 
line  could  be  drawn  parallel  to  a  given  line ;  the  possibility 
that  the  angles  of  a  triangle  are  together  greater  than  two 
right  angles,  if  drawn  upon  immense  curvatures — the 
breathless  intuitions  of  Beltrami  and  Lobatchewsky — all 
these  I  hurried  through,  and  emerged,  panting  but  unsat- 
isfied, upon  the  verge  of  my — my  new  world,  my  Higher 
Space  possibilities — in  a  word,  my  disease ! 

"How  I  got  there,"  he  resumed  after  a  brief  pause, 
during  which  he  appeared  to  be  listening  intently  for  an 
approaching  sound,  "is  more  than  I  can  put  intelligibly 
into  words.  I  can  only  hope  to  leave  your  mind  with  an 
intuitive  comprehension  of  the  possibility  of  what  I  say. 

"Here,  however,  came  a  change.  At  this  point  I  was 
no  longer  absorbing  the  fruits  of  studies  I  had  made 
before;  it  was  the  beginning  of  new  efforts  to  learn  for 
the  first  time,  and  I  had  to  go  slowly  and  laboriously 
through  terrible  work.  Here  I  sought  for  the  theories 
and  speculations  of  others.  But  books  were  few  and  far 
between,  and  with  the  exception  of  one  man — a  'dreamer,' 
the  world  called  him — whose  audacity  and  piercing  intui- 
tion amazed  and  delighted  me  beyond  description,  I 
found  no  one  to  guide  or  help. 

"You,  of  course.  Dr.  Silence,  understand  something  of 
what  I  am  driving  at  with  these  stammering  words, 
though  you  cannot  perhaps  yet  guess  what  depths  of 
pain  my  new  knowledge  brought  me  to,  nor  why  an 
acquaintance  with  a  new  development  of  space  should 
prove  a  source  of  misery  and  terror." 


A  Victim  of  Higher  Space     203 

Mr.  Racine  Mudge,  remembering  that  the  chair  would 
not  move,  did  the  next  best  thing  he  could  in  his  desire 
to  draw  nearer  to  the  attentive  man  facing  him,  and  sat 
forward  upon  the  very  edge  of  the  cushions,  crossing  his 
legs  and  gesticulating  with  both  hands  as  though  he  saw 
into  this  region  of  new  space  he  was  attempting  to 
describe,  and  might  any  moment  tumble  into  it  bodily 
from  the  edge  of  the  chair  and  disappear  from  view. 
John  Silence,  separated  from  him  by  three  paces,  sat 
with  his  eyes  fixed  upon  the  thin  white  face  opposite, 
noting  every  word  and  every  gesture  with  deep  attention. 

''This  room  we  now  sit  in.  Dr.  Silence,  has  one  side 
open  to  space — to  Higher  Space.  A  closed  box  only  seems 
closed.  There  is  a  way  in  and  out  of  a  soap  bubble  with- 
out breaking  the  skin." 

"You  tell  me  no  new  thing,"  the  doctor  interposed 
gently. 

''Hence,  if  Higher  Space  exists  and  our  world  borders 
upon  it  and  lies  partially  in  it,  it  follows  necessarily  that 
we  see  only  portions  of  all  objects.  We  never  see  their 
true  and  complete  shape.  We  see  their  three  measure- 
ments, but  not  their  fourth.  The  new  direction  is  con- 
cealed from  us,  and  when  I  hold  this  book  and  move 
my  hand  all  round  it  I  have  not  really  made  a  complete 
circuit.  We  only  perceive  those  portions  of  any  object 
which  exist  in  our  three  dimensions ;  the  rest  escapes  us. 
But,  once  we  learn  to  see  in  Higher  Space,  and  objects 
will  appear  as  they  actually  are.  Only  they  will  thus  be 
hardly  recognisable ! 

"Now,  you  may  begin  to  grasp  something  of  what  I  am 
coming  to." 

'T  am  beginning  to  understand  something  of  what  you 
must  have  suffered,"  observed  the  doctor  soothingly,  "for 
I  have  made  similar  experiments  myself,  and  only  stopped 
just  in  time " 

"You  are  the  one  man  in  all  the  world  who  can  hear 
and  understand,  and  sympathise,"  exclaimed  Mr.  Mudge, 


204  Day  and  Night  Stories 

grasping  his  hand  and  holding  it  tightly  while  he  spoke. 
The  nailed  chair  prevented  further  excitability. 

"Well,"  he  resumed,  after  a  moment's  pause,  "I  pro- 
cured the  implements  and  the  coloured  blocks  for  prac- 
tical experiment,  and  I  followed  the  instructions  carefully 
till  I  had  arrived  at  a  working  conception  of  four-dimen- 
sional space.  The  tessaract,  the  figure  whose  boundaries 
are  cubes,  I  knew  by  heart.  That  is  to  say,  I  knew  it  and 
saw  it  mentally,  for  my  eye,  of  course,  could  never  take 
in  a  new  measurement,  or  my  hands  and  feet  handle  it. 

"So,  at  least,  I  thought,"  he  added,  making  a  wry  face. 
"I  had  reached  the  stage,  you  see,  when  I  could  imagine 
in  a  new  dimension.  I  was  able  to  conceive  the  shape  of 
that  new  figure  which  is  intfinsically  different  to  all  we 
know — the  shape  of  the  tessaract.  I  could  perceive  in 
four  dimensions.  When,  therefore,  I  looked  at  a  cube 
I  could  see  all  its  sides  at  once.  Its  top  was  not  fore- 
shortened, nor  its  farther  side  and  base  invisible.  I  saw 
the  whole  thing  out  flat,  so  to  speak.  And  this  Tessaract 
was  bounded  by  cubes!  Moreover,  I  also  saw  its  con- 
tent— its  insides." 

"You  were  not  yourself  able  to  enter  this  new  world," 
interrupted  Dr.  Silence. 
^"Not  then.  I  was  only  able  to  conceive  intuitively 
what  it  was  like  and  how  exactly  it  must  look.  Later, 
when  I  slipped  in  there  and  saw  objects  in  their  entirety, 
unlimited  by  the  paucity  of  our  poor  three  measurements, 
I  very  nearly  lost  my  life.  For,  you  see,  space  does  not 
stop  at  a  single  new  dimension,  a  fourth.  It  extends  in 
all  possible  new  ones,  and  we  must  conceive  it  as  contain- 
ing any  number  of  new  dimensions.  In  other  words, 
there  is  no  space  at  all,  but  only  a  spiritual  condition. 
But,  meanwhile,  I  had  come  to  grasp  the  strange  fact  that 
the  objects  in  our  normal  world  appear  to  us  only  par- 
tially." 

Mr.  Mudge  moved  farther  forward  till  he  was  balanced 
dangerously  on  the  very  edge  of  the  chair.     "From  this 


A  Victim  of  Higher  Space      205 

starting  point/'  he  resumed,  "I  began  my  studies  and 
experiments,  and  continued  them  for  years.  I  had 
money,  and  I  was  without  friends.  I  lived  in  solitude  and 
experimented.  My  intellect,  of  course,  had  little  part  in 
the  work,  for  intellectually  it  was  all  unthinkable.  Never 
was  the  limitation  of  mere  reason  more  plainly  demon- 
strated. It  was  mystically,  intuitively,  spiritually  that  I 
began  to  advance.  And  what  I  learnt,  and  knew,  and  did 
is  all  impossible  to  put  into  language,  since  it  all  describes 
experiences  transcending  the  experiences  of  men.  It  is 
only  some  of  the  results — what  you  would  call  the  symp- 
toms of  my  disease — that  I  can  give  you,  and  even  these 
must  often  appear  absurd  contradictions  and  impossible 
paradoxes. 

"I  can  only  tell  you,  Djr.  Silence" — his  manner  became 
exceedingly  impressive — "that  I  reached  sometimes  a 
point  of  view  whence  all  the  great  puzzle  of  the  world 
became  plain  to  me,  and  I  understood  what  they  call  in 
the  Yoga  books  'The  Great  Heresy  of  Separateness' ; 
why  all  great  teachers  have  urged  the  necessity  of  man 
loving  his  neighbour  as  himself;  how  men  are  all  really 
one;  and  why  the  utter  loss  of  self  is  necessary  to  salva- 
tion and  the  discovery  of  the  true  life  of  the  soul." 

He  paused  a  moment  and  drew  breath.  ^ 

''Your  speculations  have  been  my  own  long  ago,"  the 
doctor  said  quietly.  *'I  fully  realise  the  force  of  your 
words.  Men  are  doubtless  not  separate  at  all — in  the 
sense  they  imagine " 

"All  this  about  the  very  much  Higher  Space  I  only 
dimly,  very  dimly,  conceived,  of  course,"  the  other  went 
on,  raising  his  voice  again  by  jerks ;  "but  what  did  happen 
to  me  was  the  humbler  accident  of — the  simpler  disaster 
— oh,  dear,  how  shall  I  put  it ?" 

He  stammered  and  showed  visible  signs  of  distress. 

"It  was  simply  this,"  he  resumed  with  a  sudden  rush 
of  words,  "that,  accidentally,  as  the  result  of  my  years 
of  experiment,  I  one  day  slipped  bodily  into  the  next 


2o6         Day  and  Night  Stories 

world,  the  world  of  four  dimensions,  yet  without  knowing 
precisely  how  I  got  there,  or  how  I  could  get  back  again. 
1  discovered,  that  is,  that  my  ordinary  three-dimensional 
body  was  but  an  expression — a  projection — of  my  higher 
four-dimensional  body ! 

"Now  you  understand  what  I  meant  much  earlier  in 
our  talk  when  I  spoke  of  chance.  I  cannot  control  my 
entrance  or  exit.  Certain  people,  certain  human  atmos- 
pheres, certain  wandering  forces,  thoughts,  desires  even 
— the  radiations  of  certain  combinations  of  colour,  and 
above  all,  the  vibrations  of  certain  kinds  of  music,  will 
suddenly  throw  me  into  a  state  of  what  I  can  only  de- 
scribe as  an  intense  and  terrific  inner  vibration — and  be- 
hold I  am  off !  Off  in  the  direction  at  right  angles  to  all 
our  known  directions !  Off  in  the  direction  the  cube  takes 
when  it  begins  to  trace  the  outlines  of  the  new  figure! 
Off  into  my  breathless  and  semi-divine  Higher  Space! 
Off,  inside  myself,  into  the  world  of  four  dimensions !" 

He  gasped  and  dropped  back  into  the  depths  of  the 
immovable  chair. 

*'And  there,"  he  whispered,  his  voice  issuing  from 
among  the  cushions,  "there  I  have  to  stay  until  these 
vibrations  subside,  or  until  they  do  something  which  I 
cannot  find  words  to  describe  properly  or  intelligibly  to 
you — and  then,  behold,  I  am  back  again.  First,  that  is, 
I  disappear.     Then  I  reappear." 

"Just  so,"  exclaimed  Dr.  Silence,  "and  that  is  why  a 
few " 

"Why  a  few  moments  ago,"  interrupted  Mr.  Mudge, 
taking  the  words  out  of  his  mouth,  "you  found  me  gone, 
and  then  saw  me  return.  The  music  of  that  wretched 
German  band  sent  me  off.  Your  intense  thinking  about 
me  brought  me  back — when  the  band  had  stopped  its 
Wagner.  I  saw  you  approach  the  peep-hole  and  I  saw 
Barker's  intention  of  doing  so  later.  For  me  no  interiors 
are  hidden.     I  see  inside.     When  in  that  state  the  content 


A  Victim  of  Higher  Space      207 

of  your  mind,  as  of  your  body,  is  open  to  me  as  the  day. 
Oh,  dear,  oh,  dear,  oh,  dear!" 

Mr.  Mudge  stopped  and  again  mopped  his  brow.  A 
light  trembling  ran  over  the  surface  of  his  small  body 
like  wind  over  grass.  He  still  held  tightly  to  the  arms 
of  the  chair. 

"At  first,"  he  presently  resumed,  *'my  new  experiences 
were  so  vividly  interesting  that  I  felt  no  alarm.  There 
was  no  room  for  it.     The  alarm  came  a  little  later." 

'Then  you  actually  penetrated  far  enough  into  that 
state  to  experience  yourself  as  a  normal  portion  of  it?" 
asked  the  doctor,  leaning  forward,  deeply  interested. 

Mr.  Mudge  nodded  a  perspiring  face  in  reply. 

''I  did,"  he  whispered,  "undoubtedly  I  did.  I  am  com- 
ing to  all  that.  It  began  first  at  night,  when  I  realised 
that  sleep  brought  no  loss  of  consciousness " 

"The  spirit,  of  course,  can  never  sleep.  Only  the  body 
becomes  unconscious,"  interposed  John  Silence. 

"Yes,  we  know  that — theoretically.  At  night,  of 
course,  the  spirit  is  active  elsewhere,  and  we  have  no 
memory  of  where  and  how,  simply  because  the  brain 
stays  behind  and  receives  no  record.  But  I  found  that, 
while  remaining  conscious,  I  also  retained  memory.  I 
had  attained  to  the  state  of  continuous  consciousness,  for 
at  night  I  regularly,  with  the  first  approaches  of  drowsi- 
ness, entered  nolens  volens  the  four-dimensional  world. 

"For  a  time  this  happened  regularly,  and  I  could  not 
control  it ;  though  later  I  found  a  way  to  regulate  it  bet- 
ter. Apparently  sleep  is  unnecessary  in  the  higher — the 
four-dimensional — body.  Yes,  perhaps.  But  I  should 
infinitely  have  preferred  dull  sleep  to  the  knowledge. 
For,  unable  to  control  my  movements,  I  wandered  to  and 
fro,  attracted,  owing  to  my  partial  development  and  pre- 
mature arrival,  to  parts  of  this  new  world  that  alarmed 
me  more  and  more.  It  was  the  awful  waste  and  drift 
of  a  monstrous  world,  so  utterly  different  to  all  we  know 
and  see  that  I  cannot  even  hint  at  the  nature  of  the  sights 


2o8         Day  and  Night  Stories 

and  objects  and  beings  in  it.  More  than  that,  I  cannot 
even  remember  them.  I  cannot  now  picture  them  to 
myself  even,  but  can  recall  only  the  memory  of  the  im- 
pression they  made  upon  me,  the  horror  and  devastating 
terror  of  it  all.  To  be  in  several  places  at  once,  for  in- 
stance  " 

"Perfectly,"  interrupted  John  Silence,  noticing  the  in- 
crease of  the  other's  excitement,  "I  understand  exactly. 
But  now,  please,  tell  me  a  little  more  of  this  alarm  you 
experienced,  and  how  it  affected  you." 

"It's  not  the  disappearing  and  reappearing  per  se  that 
I  mind,"  continued  Mr.  Mudge,  "so  much  as  certain 
other  things.  It's  seeing  people  and  objects  in  their 
weird  entirety,  in  their  true  and  complete  shapes,  that 
is  so  distressing.  It  introduces  me  to  a  world  of  mon- 
sters. Horses,  dogs,  cats,  all  of  which  I  loved;  people, 
trees,  children;  all  that  I  have  considered  beautiful  in 
life — everything,  from  a  human  face  to  a  cathedral — ap- 
pear to  me  in  a  different  shape  and  aspect  to  all  I  have 
known  before.  I  cannot  perhaps  convince  you  why  this 
should  be  terrible,  but  I  assure  you  that  it  is  so.  To  hear 
the  human  voice  proceeding  from  this  novel  appearance 
which  I  scarcely  recognise  as  a  human  body  is  ghastly, 
simply  ghastly.  To  see  inside  everything  and  everybody 
is  a  form  of  insight  peculiarly  distressing.  To  be  so 
confused  in  geography  as  to  find  myself  one  moment  at 
the  North  Pole,  and  the  next  at  Clapham  Junction — or 
possibly  at  both  places  simultaneously — is  absurdly  terri- 
fying. Your  imagination  will  readily  furnish  other  de- 
tails without  my  rnultiplying  my  experiences  now.  But 
you  have  no  idea  what  it  all  means,  and  how  I  suffer." 

Mr.  Mudge  paused  in  his  panting  account  and  lay 
back  in  his  chair.  He  still  held  tightly  to  the  arms  as 
though  they  could  keep  him  in  the  world  of  sanity  and 
three  measurements,  and  only  now  and  again  released  his 
left  hand  in  order  to  mop  his  face.  He  looked  very  thin 
and  white  and  oddly  unsubstantial,  and  he  sta,red  about 


A  Victim  of  Higher  Space      209 

him  as  though  he  saw  into  this  other  space  he  had  been 
talking  about. 

John  Silence,  too,  felt  warm.  He  had  listened  to  every 
word  and  had  made  many  notes.  The  presence  of  this 
man  had  an  exhilarating  effect  upon  him.  It  seemed  as 
if  Mr.  Racine  Mudge  still  carried  about  with  him  some- 
thing of  that  breathless  Higher-Space  condition  he  had 
been  describing.  At  any  rate.  Dr.  Silence  had  himself 
advanced  sufficiently  far  along  the  legitimate  paths  of 
spiritual  and  psychic  transformations  to  realise  that  the 
visions  of  this  extraordinary  little  person  had  a  basis  of 
truth  for  their  origin. 

After  a  pause  that  prolonged  itself  into  minutes,  he 
crossed  the  room  and  unlocked  a  drawer  in  a  bookcase, 
taking  out  a  small  book  with  a  red  cover.  It  had  a  lock 
to  it,  and  he  produced  a  key  out  of  his  pocket  and  pro- 
ceeded to  open  the  covers.  The  bright  eyes  of  Mr,  Mudge 
never  left  him  for  a  single  second. 

'Tt  almost  seems  a  pity,"  he  said  at  length,  "to  cure 
you,  Mr.  Mudge.  You  are  on  the  way  to  discovery  of 
great  things.  Though  you  may  lose  your  life  in  the 
process — that  is,  your  Hfe  here  in  the  world  of  three 
dimensions — you  would  lose  thereby  nothing  of  great 
value — you  will  pardon  my  apparent  rudeness,  I  know — 
and  you  might  gain  what  is  infinitely  greater.  Your  suf- 
fering, of  course,  lies  in  the  fact  that  you  alternate  be- 
tween the  two  worlds  and  are  never  wholly  in  one  or 
the  other.  Also,  I  rather  imagine,  though  I  cannot  be 
certain  of  this  from  any  personal  experiments,  that  you 
have  here  and  there  penetrated  even  into  space  of  more 
than  four  dimensions,  and  have  hence  experienced  the 
terror  you  speak  of." 

The  perspiring  son  of  the  Essex  bargeman  and  the 
woman  of  Normandy  bent  his  head  several  times  in  as- 
sent, but  uttered  no  word  in  reply. 

''Some  strange  psychic  predisposition,  dating  no  doubt 
from  one  of  your  former  lives,  has  favoured  the  devel- 


210         Day  and  Night  Stories 

opment  of  your  'disease' ;  and  the  fact  that  you  had  no 
normal  training  at  school  or  college,  no  leading  by  the 
poor  intellect  into  the  culs-de-sac  falsely  called  knowl- 
edge, has  further  caused  your  exceedingly  rapid  move- 
ment along  the  lines  of  direct  inner  experience.  None  of 
the  knowledge  you  have  foreshadowed  has  come  to  you 
through  the  senses,  of  course." 

Mr.  Mudge,  sitting  in  his  immovable  chair,  began  to 
tremble  slightly.  A  wind  again  seemed  to  pass  over  his 
surface  and  again  to  set  it  curiously  in  motion  like  a 
field  of  grass. 

"You  are  merely  talking  to  gain  time,"  he  said  hur- 
riedly, in  a  shaking  voice.  "This  thinking  aloud  delays 
us.  I  see  ahead  what  you  are  coming  to,  only  please  be 
quick,  for  something  is  going  to  happen.  A  band  is 
again  coming  down  the  street,  and  if  it  plays — if  it  plays 
Wagner — I  shall  be  off  in  a  twinkling." 

"Precisely.  I  will  be  quick.  I  was  leading  up  to  the 
point  of  how  to  effect  your  cure.  The  way  is  this :  You 
must  simply  learn  to  block  the  entrances/' 

"True,  true,  utterly  true!"  exclaimed  the  little  man, 
dodging  about  nervously  in  the  depths  of  the  chair. 
"But  how,  in  the  name  of  space,  is  that  to  be  done?" 

"By  concentration.  They  are  all  within  you,  these  en-' 
trances,  although  outer  cases  such  as  colour,  music  and 
other  things  lead  you  towards  them.  These  external 
things  you  cannot  hope  to  destroy,  but  once  the  entrances 
are  blocked,  they  will  lead  you  only  to  bricked  walls 
and  closed  channels.  You  will  no  longer  be  able  to  find 
the  way." 

"Quick,  quick!"  cried  the  bobbing  figure  in  the  chair. 
"How  is  this  concentration  to  be  effected  ?" 

"This  little  book,"  continued  Dr.  Silence  calmly,  "will 
explain  to  you  the  way."  He  tapped  the  cover.  "Let 
me  now  read  out  to  you  certain  simple  instructions,  com- 
posed, as  I  see  you  divine,  entirely  from  my  own  personal 
experiences  in  the  same  direction.     Follow  these  instruc- 


A  Victim  of  Higher  Space      211 

tions  and  you  will  no  longer  enter  the  state  of  Higher 
Space.    The  entrances  will  be  blocked  effectively." 

Mr.  Mudge  sat  bolt  upright  in  his  chair  to  listen,  and 
John  Silence  cleared  his  throat  and  began  to  read  slowly 
in  a  very  distinct  voice. 

But  before  he  had  uttered  a  dozen  words,  something 
happened.  A  sound  of  street  music  entered  the  room 
through  the  open  ventilators,  for  a  band  had  begun  to 
play  in  the  stable  mews  at  the  back  of  the  house — the 
March  from  Tannhduser.  Odd  as  it  may  seem  that  a 
German  band  should  twice  within  the  space  of  an  hour 
enter  the  same  mews  and  play  Wagner,  it  was  neverthe- 
less the  fact. 

Mr,  Racine  Mudge  heard  it.  He  uttered  a  sharp, 
squeaking  cry  and  twisted  his  arms  with  nervous  energy 
round  the  chair.  A  piteous  look  that  was  not  far  from 
tears  spread  over  his  white  face.  Grey  shadows  fol- 
lowed it — the  grey  of  fear.  He  began  to  struggle  con- 
vulsively. 

''Hold  me  fast !  Catch  me !  For  God's  sake,  keep  me 
here!  I'm  on  the  rush  already.  Oh,  it's  frightful!"  he 
cried  in  tones  of  anguish,  his  voice  as  thin  as  a  reed. 

Dr.  Silence  made  a  plunge  forward  to  seize  him,  but  in 
a  flash,  before  he  could  cover  the  space  between 
them,  Mr.  Racine  Mudge,  screaming  and  struggling, 
seemed  to  shoot  past  him  into  invisibility.  He  disap- 
peared like  an  arrow  from  a  bow  propelled  at  infinite 
speed,  and  his  voice  no  longer  sounded  in  the  external  air, 
but  seemed  in  some  curious  way  to  make  itself  heard 
somewhere  within  the  depths  of  the  doctor's  own  being. 
It  was  almost  like  a  faint  singing  cry  in  his  head,  like  a 
voice  of  dream,  a  voice  of  vision  and  unreality. 

''Alcohol,  alcohol !"  it  cried,  "give  me  alcohol !  It's 
the  quickest  way.     Alcohol,  before  I'm  out  of  reach !" 

The  doctor,  accustomed  to  rapid  decisions  and  even 
more  rapid  action,  remembered  that  a  brandy  flask  stood 
upon  the  mantelpiece,  and  in  less  than  a  second  he  had 


212         Day  and  Night  Stories 

seized  it  and  was  holding  it  out  towards  the  space  above 
the  chair  recently  occupied  by  the  visible  Mudge.  Then, 
before  his  very  eyes,  and  long  ere  he  could  unscrew  the 
metal  stopper,  he  saw  the  contents  of  the  closed  glass 
phial  sink  and  lessen  as  though  some  one  were  drinking 
violently  and  greedily  of  the  liquor  within. 

"Thanks  !  Enough  !  It  deadens  the  vibrations !"  cried 
the  faint  voice  in  his  interior,  as  he  withdrew  the  flask 
and  set  it  back  upon  the  mantelpiece.  He  understood 
that  in  Mudge's  present  condition  one  side  of  the  flask 
was  open  to  space  and  he  could  drink  without  removing 
the  stopper.  He  could  hardly  have  had  a  more  interest- 
ing proof  of  what  he  had  been  hearing  described  at  such 
length. 

But  the  next  moment — the  very  same  moment  it  almost 
seemed — the  German  band  stopped  midway  in  its  tune — 
and  there  was  Mr.  Mudge  back  in  his  chair  again,  gasping 
and  panting! 

''Quick !"  he  shrieked,  "stop  that  band !  Send  it  away ! 
Catch  hold  of  me !  Block  the  entrances !  Block  the  en- 
trances!    Give  me  the  red  book!     Oh,  oh,  oh-h-h-h!!!" 

The  music  had  begun  again.  It  was  merely  a  tempo- 
rary interruption.  The  Tannhduser  March  started  again, 
this  time  at  a  tremendous  pace  that  made  it  sound  like  a 
rapid  two-step  as  though  the  instruments  played  against 
time. 

But  the  brief  interruption  gave  Dr.  Silence  a  moment 
in  which  to  collect  his  scattering  thoughts,  and  before  the 
band  had  got  through  half  a  bar,  he  had  flung  forward 
upon  the  chair  and  held  Mr.  Racine  Mudge,  the  struggling 
little  victim  of  Higher  Space,  in  a  grip  of  iron.  His  arms 
went  all  round  his  diminutive  person,  taking  in  a  good 
part  of  the  chair  at  the  same  time.  He  was  not  a  big 
man,  yet  he  seemed  to  smother  Mudge  completely. 

Yet,  even  as  he  did  so,  and  felt  the  wriggling  form 
underneath  him,  it  began  to  melt  and  slip  away  like  air 
or  water.     The  wood  of  the  arm-chair  somehow  disen- 


A  Victim  of  Higher  Space     213 

tangled  itself  from  between  his  own  arms  and  those  of 
Mudge.  The  phenomenon  known  as  the  passage  of  mat- 
ter through  matter  took  place.  The  little  man  seemed 
actually  to  get  mixed  up  in  his  own  being.  D!r.  Silence 
could  just  see  his  face  beneath  him.  It  puckered  and 
grew  dark  as  though  from  some  great  internal  effort. 
He  heard  the  thin,  reedy  voice  cry  in  his  ear  to  "Block 
the  entrances,  block  the  entrances!"  and  then — but  how 
in  the  world  describe  what  is  indescribable? 

John  Silence  half  rose  up  to  watch.  Racine  Mudge, 
his  face  distorted  beyond  all  recognition,  was  making  a 
marvellous  inward  movement,  as  though  doubling  back 
upon  himself.  He  turned  funnel-wise  like  water  in  a 
whirling  vortex,  and  then  appeared  to  break  up  some- 
what as  a  reflection  breaks  up  and  divides  in  a  distorting 
convex  mirror.  He  went  neither  forward  nor  back- 
wards, neither  to  the  right  nor  the  left,  neither  up  nor 
down.  But  he  went.  He  went  utterly.  He  simply 
flashed  away  out  of  sight  like  a  vanishing  projectile. 

All  but  one  leg!  Dr.  Silence  just  had  the  time  and 
the  presence  of  mind  to  seize  upon  the  left  ankle  and 
boot  as  it  disappeared,  and  to  this  he  held  on  for  several 
seconds  like  grim  death.  Yet  all  the  time  he  knew  it 
was  a  foolish  and  useless  thing  to  do. 

The  foot  was  in  his  grasp  one  moment,  and  the  next 
it  seemed — this  was  the  only  way  he  could  describe  it — 
inside  his  own  skin  and  bones,  and  at  the  same  time  out- 
side his  hand  and  all  round  it.  It  seemed  mixed  up  in 
some  amazing  way  with  his  own  flesh  and  blood.  Then 
it  was  gone,  and  he  was  tightly  grasping  a  draught  of 
heated  air. 

''Gone!  gone!  gone!"  cried  a  thick,  whispering  voice, 
somewhere  deep  within  his  own  consciousness.  "Lost! 
lost!  lost!"  it  repeated,  growing  fainter  and  fainter  till 
at  length  it  vanished  into  nothing  and  the  last  signs  of 
Mr.  Racine  Mudge  vanished  with  it. 

John  Silence  locked  his  red  book  and  replaced  it  in  the 


214         Day  and  Night  Stories 

cabinet,  which  he  fastened  with  a  click,  and  when  Barker 
answered  the  bell  he  inquired  if  Mr.  Mudge  had  left  a 
card  upon  the  table.  It  appeared  that  he  had,  and  when 
the  servant  returned  with  it,  Dr.  Silence  read  the  address 
and  made  a  note  of  it.     It  was  in  North  London. 

"Mr.  Mudge  has  gone,"  he  said  quietly  to  Barker, 
noticing  his  expression  of  alarm. 

"He's  not  taken  his  'at  with  him,  sir." 

"Mr.  Mudge  requires  no  hat  where  he  is  now,"  con- 
tinued the  doctor,  stooping  to  poke  the  fire.  "But  he  may 
return  for  it " 

"And  the  humbrella,  sir." 

"And  the  umbrella." 

"He  didn't  go  out  my  way,  sir,  if  you  please,"  stuttered 
the  amazed  servant,  his  curiosity  overcoming  his  nervous- 
ness. 

"Mr.  Mudge  has  his  own  way  of  coming  and  going, 
and  prefers  it.  If  he  returns  by  the  door  at  any  time 
remember  to  bring  him  instantly  to  me,  and  be  kind  and 
gentle  with  him  and  ask  no  questions.  Also,  remember. 
Barker,  to  think  pleasantly,  sympathetically,  affection- 
ately of  him  while  he  is  away.  Mr.  Mudge  is  a  very 
suffering  gentleman." 

Barker  bowed  and  went  out  of  the  room  backwards, 
gasping  and  feeling  round  the  inside  of  his  collar  with 
three  very  hot  fingers  of  one  hand. 

It  was  two  days  later  when  he  brought  in  a  telegram 
to  the  study.  Dr.  Silence  opened  it,  and  read  as  fol- 
lows: 

"Bombay.  Just  slipped  out  again.  All  safe.  Have 
blocked  entrances.  Thousand  thanks.  Address  Cooks, 
London. — Mudge/' 

Dr.  Silence  looked  up  and  saw  Barker  staring  at  him 
bewilderingly.  It  occurred  to  him  that  somehow  he  knew 
the  contents  of  the  telegram. 


A  Victim  of  Higher  Space  ,  215 

"Make  a  parcel  of  Mr.  Mudge's  things,"  he  said  briefly, 
"and  address  them  Thomas  Cook  &  Sons,  Ludgate  Cir- 
cus. And  send  them  there  exactly  a  month  from  to-day 
and  marked  *To  be  called  for.'  " 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  Barker,  leaving  the  room  with  a  deep 
sigh  and  a  hurried  glance  at  the  waste-paper  basket  where 
his  master  had  dropped  the  pink  paper. 


XIV 

TRANSITION 

John  Mudbury  was  on  his  way  home  from  the  shops,  his 
arms  full  of  Chr^^mas  ^^resents.  It  was  after  six  o'clock 
anci  the  streets  were  very  crowded.  He  was  an  ordinary 
man,  lived  in  an  ordinary  suburban  H-^v,  with  an  ordinary 
wife  and  four  ordinary  children.  He  did  not  think  them 
ordinary,  but  everybody  else  did.  He  had  ordinary  pres- 
ents for  each  one,  a  cheap  blotter  for  his  wife,  a  cheap 
air-gun  for  the  eldest  boy,  and  so  forth.  He  was  over 
fifty,  bald,  in  an  office,  decent  in  mind  and  habits,  of  un- 
certain opinions,  uncertain  politics,  and  uncertain  reli- 
gion. Yet  he  considered  himself  a  decided,  positive  gen- 
tleman, quite  unaware  that  the  morning  newspaper  deter- 
mined his  opinions  for  the  day.  He  just  lived — from 
day  to  day.  Physically,  he  was  fit  enough,  except  for  a 
weak  heart  (which  never  troubled  him)  ;  and  his  summer 
holiday  was  bad  golf,  while  the  children  bathed  and  his 
wife  read  "Garvice"  on  the  sands.  Like  the  majority 
of  men,  he  dreamed  idly  of  the  past,  muddled  away  the 
present,  and  guessed  vaguely — after  imaginative  reading 
on  occasions — at  the  future. 

"Fd  like  to  survive  all  right,"  he  said,  "provided  it's 
better  than  this,"  surveying  his  wife  and  children,  and 

thinking  of  his  daily  toil.       "Otherwise !"  and  he 

shrugged  his  shoulders  as  a  brave  man  should. 

He  went  to  church  regularly.  But  nothing  in  church 
convinced  him  that  he  did  survive,  just  as  nothing  in 
church  enticed  him  into  hoping  that  he  would.  On  the 
other  hand,  nothing  in  life  persuaded  him  that  he  didn't, 
wouldn't,  couldn't.     "I'm  an  Evolutionist,"  he  loved  to 

216 


Transition  217 

say  to  thoughtful  cronies  (over  a  glass),  having  never 
heard  that  Darwinism  had  been  questioned.   .    .    . 

And  so  he  came  home  gaily,  happily,  with  his  bunch 
of  Christmas  presents  "for  the  wife  and  little  ones," 
stroking  himself  upon  their  keen  enjoyment  and  excite- 
ment. The  night  before  he  had  taken  "the  wife"  to  see 
Magic  at  a  select  London  the^tr-  where  the  Intellectuals 
went — and  had  been  extraordinarily  stirred.  He  had 
gone  questioningly,  yet  expecting  something  out  of  the 
common.  "It's  not  musical,"  he  warned  her,  "nor  farce, 
nor  comedy,  so  to  speak" ;  and  in  answer  to  her  question 
as  to  what  the  Critics  had  said,  he  had  wriggled,  sighed, 
and  put  his  gaudy  necktie  straight  four  times  in  quick 
succession.  For  no  "Man  in  the  Street,"  with  any  claim 
to  self-respect,  could  be  expected  to  understand  what 
the  Critics  had  said,  even  if  he  understood  the  Play.  And 
John  had  answered  truthfully:  "Oh,  they  just  said 
things.  But  the  the^^tre's  always  full — and  that's  the  only 
test." 

And  just  now,  as  he  crossed  the  crowded  Circus  to 
catch  his  'bus,  it  chanced  that  his  mind  (having  glimpsed 
an  advertisement)  was  full  of  this  particular  Play,  or, 
rather,  of  the  effect  it  had  produced  upon  him  at  the  time. 
For  it  had  thrilled  him — inexplicably :  with  its  marvellous 
speculative  hint,  its  big  audacity,  its  alert  and  spiritual 
beauty.  .  .  .  Thought  plunged  to  find  something — 
plunged  after  this  bizarre  suggestion  of  a  bigger  universe, 
after  this  quasi- jocular  suggestion  that  man  is  not  the 
only — then  dashed  full-tilt  against  a  sentence  that  mem- 
ory thrust  beneath  his  nose :  "Science  does  not  exhaust 
the  Universe" — and  at  the  same  time  dashed  full-tilt 
against  destruction  of  another  kind  as  well.   .    .    .  ! 

How  it  happened,  he  never  exactly  knew.  He  saw  a 
Monster  glaring  at  him  with  eyes  of  blazing  fire.  It 
was  horrible!  It  rushed  upon  him.  He  dodged.  .  .  . 
Another  Monster  met  him  round  the  corner.  Both  came 
at  him  simultaneously.  .  .  .  He  dodged  again — a   leap 


2i8         Day  and  Night  Stories 

that  might  have  cleared  a  hurdle  easily,  but  was  too  late. 
Between  the  pair  of  them — his  heart  Hterally  in  his  gullet 
— he  was  mercilessly  caught.  .  .  .  Bones  crunched. 
.  .  .  There  was  a  soft  sensation,  icy  cold  and  hot  as 
fire.  Horns  and  voices  roared.  Battering-rams  he  saw, 
and  a  carapace  of  iron.  .  .  .  Then  dazzling  light.  .  .  . 
"Always  face  the  traffic !"  he  remembered  with  a  frantic 
yell — and,  by  some  extraordinary  luck,  escaped  miracu- 
lously on  to  the  opposite  pavement.  .  .  . 

There  was  no  doubt  about  it.  By  the  skin  of  his  teqth 
he  had  dodged  a  rather  ugly  death.  First  ...  he  felt 
for  his  presents — all  were  safe.  And  then,  instead  of 
congratulating  himself  and  taking  breath,  he  hurried 
homewards — on  foot,  which  proved  that  his  mind  had 
lost  control  a  bit! — thinking  only  how  disappointed  the 
wife  and  children  would  have  been  if — if  anything  had 
happened.  .  .  .  Another  thing  he  realised,  oddly 
enough,  was  that  he  no  longer  really  loved  his  wife,  but 
had  only  great  affection  for  her.  What  made  him  think 
of  that,  Heaven  only  knows,  but  he  did  think  of  it.  He 
was  an  honest  man  without  pretence.  This  came  as  a 
discovery  somehow.  He  turned  a  moment,  and  saw  the 
crowd  gathered  about  the  entangled  taxicabs,  policemen's 
helmets  gleaming  in  the  lights  of  the  shop  windows  .  .  . 
then  hurried  on  again,  his  thoughts  full  of  the  joy  his 
presents  would  give  ...  of  the  scampering  children 
.  .  .  and  of  his  wife — bless  her  silly  heart ! — eyeing  the 
mysterious  parcels.  .    .    . 

And,  though  he  never  could  explain  how,  he  presently 
stood  at  the  door  of  the  jail-like  building  that  contained 
his  flat,  having  walked  the  whole  three  miles!  His 
thoughts  had  been  so  busy  and  absorbed  that  he  had 
hardly  noticed  the  length  of  weary  trudge.  .  .  .  "Be- 
sides," he  reflected,  thinking  of  the  narrow  escape,  "IVe 

had  a  nasty  shock.     It  was  a  d d  near  thing,  now  I 

come  to  think  of  it.  ..."    He  did  feel  a  bit  shaky  and 


Transition  219 

bewildered.  .  .  .  Yet,  at  the  same  time,  he  felt  extraor- 
dinarily jolly  and  light-hearted.  .  .  . 

He  counted  his  Christmas  parcels  .  .  .  hugged  him- 
self in  anticipatory  joy  .  .  .  and  let  himself  in  swiftly 
with  his  latchkey.  "Fm  late,"  he  realised,  '*but  when  she 
sees  the  brown-paper  parcels,  she'll  forget  to  say  a  word. 
God  bless  the  old  faithful  soul."  And  he  softly  used  the 
key  a  second  time  and  entered  his  flat  on  tiptoe.  ...  In 
his  mind  was  the  master  impulse  of  that  afternoon — the 
pleasure  these  Christmas  presents  would  give  his  wife 
and  children.  .    .    . 

He  heard  a  noise.  He  hung  up  hat  and  coat  in  the 
pokey  vestibule  (they  never  called  it  "hall")  and  moved 
softly  towards  the  parlour  door,  holding  the  packages 
behind  him.  Only  of  them  he  thought,  not  of  himself 
— of  his  family,  that  is,  not  of  the  packages.  Pushing  the 
door  cunningly  ajar,  he  peeped  in  slyly.  To  his  amaze- 
ment, the  room  was  full  of  people !  He  withdrew  quickly, 
wondering  what  it  meant.  A  party?  And  without  his 
knowing  about  it!  Extraordinary!  .  .  .  Keen  disap- 
pointment came  over  him.  But,  as  he  stepped  back,  the 
vestibule,  he  saw,  was  full  of  people  too. 

He  was  uncommonly  surprised,  yet  somehow  not  sur- 
prised at  all.  People  were  congratulating  him.  There 
w^as  a  perfect  mob  of  them.  Moreover,  he  knew  them  all 
— vaguely  remembered  them,  at  least.  And  they  all  knew 
him. 

"Isn't  it  a  game  ?"  laughed  some  one,  patting  him  on  the 
b«ck.    "They  haven't  the  least  idea  .  .  . !" 

And  the  speaker — it  was  old  John  Palmer,  the  book- 
keeper at  the  office — emphasised  the  "they." 

"Not  the  least  idea,"  he  answered  with  a  smile,  saying 
something  he  didn't  understand,  yet  knew  was  right. 

His  face,  apparently,  showed  the  utter  bewilderment 
he  felt.  The  shock  of  the  collision  had  been  greater  than 
he  realised  evidently.  His  mind  was  wandering.  ... 
Possibly !     Only  the  odd  thing  was — he  had  never  felt  so 


220         Day  and  Night  Stories 

clear-headed  in  his  life.  Ten  thousand  things  grew  sim- 
ple suddenly.  But,  how  thickly  these  people  pressed 
about  him,  and  how — familiarly! 

"My  parcels,"  he  said,  joyously  pushing  his  way  across 
the  throng.  "These  are  Christmas  presents  I've  bought 
for  them."  He  nodded  toward  the  room.  "I've  saved 
for  weeks — stopped  cigars  and  billiards  and — and  several 
other  good  things — to  buy  them." 

"Good  man!"  said  Palmer  with  a  happy  laugh.  "It's 
the  heart  that  counts." 

Mudbury  looked  at  him.  Palmer  had  said  an  amazing 
truth,  only — people  would  hardly  understand  and  believe 
him.   .    .    .   Would  they? 

"Eh?"  he  asked,  feeling  stuifed  and  stupid,  muddled 
somewhere  between  two  meanings,  one  of  which  was 
gorgeous  and  the  other  stupid  beyond  belief. 

"If  you  please,  Mr.  Mudbury,  step  inside.  They  are 
expecting  you,"  said  a  kindly,  pompous  voice.  And, 
turning  sharply,  he  met  the  gentle,  foolish  eyes  of  Sir 
James  Epiphany,  a  director  of  the  Bank  where  he  worked. 

The  effect  of  the  voice  was  instantaneous  from  long 
habit. 

"They  are?"  he  smiled  from  his  heart,  and  advanced 
as  from  the  custom  of  many  years.  Oh,  how  happy 
and  gay  he  felt!  His  affection  for  his  wife  was  real. 
Romance,  indeed,  had  gone,  but  he  needed  her — and 
she  needed  him.  And  the  children — Milly,  Bill,  and 
Jean — he  deeply  loved  them.  Life  was  worth  living  in- 
deed! 

In  the  room  was  a  crowd,  but — an  astounding  silence. 
John  Mudbury  looked  round  him.  He  advanced  towards 
his  wife,  who  sat  in  the  corner  arm-chair  with  Milly  on 
her  knee.  A  lot  of  people  talked  and  moved  about. 
Momentarily  the  crowd  increased.  He  stood  in  front  of 
them — in  front  of  Milly  and  his  wife.  And  he  spoke 
— holding  out  his  packages.  "It's  Christmas  Eve,"  he 
whispered   shyly,   "and  I've — brought  you   something — 


Transition  221 

something  for  everybody.  Look!"  He  held  the  pack- 
ages before  their  eyes. 

"Of  course,  of  course,"  said  a  voice  behind  him,  "but 
you  may  hold  them  out  like  that  for  a  century.  They'll 
never  see  them !" 

"Of  course  they  won't.  But  I  love  to  do  the  old, 
sweet  thing,"  replied  John  Mudbury — then  wondered 
with  a  gasp  of  stark  amazement  why  he  said  it. 

'7  think "  whispered  Milly,  staring  round  her. 

"Well,  what  do  you  think  ?"  her  mother  asked  sharply. 
"You're  always  thinking  something  queer." 

"I  think,"  the  child  continued  dreamily,  "that  Daddy's 
already  here."  She  paused,  then  added  with  a  child's 
impossible  conviction,  "I'm  sure  he  is.    I  feel  him." 

There  was  an  extraordinary  laugh.  Sir  James 
Epiphany  laughed.  The  others — the  whole  crowd  of 
them — also  turned  their  heads  and  smiled.  But  the 
mother,  thrusting  the  child  away  from  her,  rose  up  sud- 
denly with  a  violent  start.  Her  face  had  turned  to  chalk. 
She  stretched  her  arms  out — into  the  air  before  her. 
She  gasped  and  shivered.  There  was  an  awful  anguish 
in  her  eyes. 

"Look!"  rep>eated  John,  "these  are  the  presents  that  I 
brought."  <!, 

But  his  voice  apparently  was  soundless.  And,  with  a 
spasm  of  icy  pain,  he  remembered  that  Palmer  and  Sir 
James — some  years  ago — had  died. 

"It's  magic,"  he  cried,  "but — I  love  you,  Jinny — I  love 
you — and — and  I  have  always  been  true  to  you — as  true 
as  steel.  We  need  each  other — oh,  can't  you  see — we 
go  on  together — you  and  I — for  ever  and  ever " 

"Think''  interrupted  an  exquisitely  tender  voice,  "don't 
shout !  They  can't  hear  you — now."  And,  turning,  John 
Mudbury  met  the  eyes  of  Everard  Minturn,  their  Presi- 
dent of  the  year  before.  Minturn  had  gone  down  with 
the  Titanic. 


2.22,         Day  and  Night  Stories 

He  dropped  his  parcels  then.  His  heart  gave  an 
enormous  leap  of  joy. 

He  saw  her  face — the  face  of  his  wife — look  through 
him. 

But  the  child  gazed  straight  into  his  eyes.  She  saw 
him. 

The  next  thing  he  knew  was  that  he  heard  something 
tinkling  .  .  .  far,  far  away.  It  sounded  miles  below  him 
— inside  him — he  was  sounding  himself — all  utterly  be- 
wildering— like  a  bell.    It  was  a  bell. 

Milly  stooped  down  and  picked  the  parcels  up.  Her 
face  shone  with  happiness  and  laughter.  .  .  . 

But  a  man  came  in  soon  after,  a  man  with  a  ridiculous, 
solemn  face,  a  pencil,  and  a  notebook.  He  wore  a  dark 
blue  helmet.  Behind  him  came  a  string  of  other  men. 
They  carried  something  .  .  .  something  ...  he  could 
not  see  exactly  what  it  was.  But  when  he  pressed  for- 
ward through  the  laughing  throng  to  gaze  upon  it,  he 
dimly  made  out  two  eyes,  a  nose,  a  chin,  a  deep  red 
smear,  and  a  pair  of  folded  hands  upon  an  overcoat. 
A  woman's  form  fell  down  upon  them  then,  and  ...  he 
heard  .  .  .  soft  sounds  of  children  weeping  strangely 
.  .  .  and  other  sounds  .  .  .  sounds  as  of  famiHar 
voices  .  .  .  laughing  .  .  .  laughing  gaily. 

"They'll  join  us  presently.    It  goes  like  a  flash.  .  .  ." 

And,  turning  with  great  happiness  in  his  heart,  he 
saw  that  Sir  James  had  said  it,  holding  Palmer  by  the 
arm  as  with  some  natural  yet  unexpected  love  of  sympa- 
thetic friendship. 

"Come  on,"  said  Palmer,  smiling  like  a  man  who  ac- 
cepts a  gift  in  universal  fellowship,  "let's  help  'em. 
They'll  never  understand.  .  .  .  Still,  we  can  always  try." 

The  entire  throng  moved  up  with  laughter  and  amuse- 
ment. It  was  a  moment  of  hearty,  genuine  life  at  last. 
Delight  and  Joy  and  Peace  were  everywhere. 

Then  John  Mudbury  realised  the  truth — that  he  was 
dead. 


XV 

THE  TRADITION 

The  noises  outside  the  little  flat  at  first  were  very  dis- 
concerting after  living  in  the  country.  They  made  sleep 
difficult.  At  the  cottage  in  Sussex  where  the  family  had 
lived,  night  brought  deep,  comfortable  silence,  unless  the 
wind  was  high,  when  the  pine  trees  round  the  duck-pond 
made  a  sound  like  surf,  or  if  the  gale  was  from  the 
south-west,  the  orchard  roared  a  bit  unpleasantly. 

But  in  London  it  was  very  different;  sleep  was  easier 
in  the  daytime  than  at  night.  For  after  nightfall  the 
rumble  of  the  traffic  became  spasmodic  instead  of  con- 
tinuous ;  the  motor-horns  startled  like  warnings  of  alarm ; 
after  comparative  silence  the  furious  rushing  of  a  taxi- 
cab  touched  the  nerves.  From  dinner  till  eleven  o'clock 
the  streets  subsided  gradually;  then  came  the  army  from 
theatres,  parties,  and  late  dinners,  hurrying  home  to 
bed.  The  motor-horns  during  this  hour  were  lively  and 
incessant,  like  bugles  of  a  regiment  moving  into  battle. 
The  parents  rarely  retired  until  this  attack  was  over. 
If  quick  about  it,  sleep  was  possible  then  before 
the  flying  of  the  night-birds — an  uncertain  squadron — 
screamed  half  the  street  awake  again.  But,  these  finally 
disposed  of,  a  delightful  hush  settled  down  upon  the 
neighbourhood,  profounder  far  than  any  peace  of  the 
countryside.  The  deep  rumble  of  the  produce  wagons, 
coming  in  to  the  big  London  markets  from  the  farms — 
generally  about  three  a.m. — held  no  disturbing  quality. 

But  sometimes  in  the  stillness  of  very  early  morning, 
when  streets  were  empty  and  pavements  all  deserted, 
there  was  a  sound  of  another  kind  that  was  startling  and 

223 


224         Day  and  Night  Stories 

unwelcome.  For  it  was  ominous.  It  came  with  a  clat- 
tering violence  that  made  nerves  quiver  and  forced  the 
heart  to  pause  and  listen.  A  strange  resonance  was  in 
it,  a  volume  of  sound,  moreover,  that  was  hardly  justi- 
fied by  its  cause.  For  it  was  hoofs.  A  horse  swept 
hurrying  up  the  deserted  street,  and  was  close  upon  the 
building  in  a  moment.  It  was  audible  suddenly,  no 
gradual  approach  from  a  distance,  but  as  though  it  turned 
a  corner  from  soft  ground  that  mufflied  the  hoofs,  on  to 
the  echoing,  hard  paving  that  emphasised  the  dreadful 
clatter.  Nor  did  it  die  away  again  when  once  the  house 
was  reached.  It  ceased  as  abruptly  as  it  came.  The 
hoofs  did  not  go  away. 

It  was  the  mother  who  heard  them  first,  and  drew 
her  husband's  attention  to  their  disagreeable  quality. 

"It  is  the  mail-vans,  dear,"  he  answered.  "They  go  at 
four  A.  M.  to  catch  the  early  trains  into  the  country." 

She  looked  up  sharply,  as  though  something  in  his 
tone  surprised  her. 

"But  there's  no  sound  of  wheels,"  she  said.  And 
then,  as  he  did  not  reply,  she  added  gravely,  "You  have 
heard  it  too,  John.    I  can  tell." 

"I  have,"  he  said.    "I  have  heard  it — twice." 

And  they  looked  at  one  another  searchingly,  each  try- 
ing to  read  the  other's  mind.  She  did  not  question  him; 
he  did  not  propose  writing  to  complain  in  a  newspaper; 
both  understood  something  that  neither  of  them  under- 
stood. 

"I  heard  it  first,"  she  then  said  softly,  "the  night  be- 
fore Jack  got  the  fever.  And  as  I  listened,  I  heard  him 
crying.  But  when  I  went  in  to  see  he  was  asleep.  The 
noise  stopped  just  outside  the  building."  There  was  a 
shadow  in  her  eyes  as  she  said  this,  and  a  hush  crept 
in  between  her  words.  "I  did  not  hear  it  go."  She  said 
this  almost  beneath  her  breath. 

He  looked  a  moment  at  the  ground ;  then,  coming  to- 


The  Tradition  225 

wards  her,  he  took  her  in  his  arms  and  kissed  her.  And 
she  clung  very  tightly  to  him. 

^'Sometimes,"  he  said  in  a  quiet  voice,  "a  mounted 
policeman  passes  down  the  street,  I  think." 

"It  is  a  horse,"  she  answered.  But  whether  it  was  a 
question  or  mere  corroboration  he  did  not  ask,  for  at 
that  moment  the  doctor  arrived,  and  the  question  of  little 
Jack's  health  became  the  paramount  matter  of  immediate 
interest.  The  great  man's  verdict  was  uncommonly  dis- 
quieting. 

All  that  night  they  sat  up  in  the  sick  room.  It  was 
strangely  still,  as  though  by  one  accord  the  traffic  avoided 
the  house  where  a  little  boy  hung  between  life  and  death. 
The  motor-horns  even  had  a  muffled  sound,  and  heavy 
drays  and  wagons  used  the  wide  streets;  there  were 
fewer  taxicabs  about,  or  else  they  flew  by  noiselessly. 
Yet  no  straw  was  down;  the  expense  prohibited  that. 
And  towards  morning,  very  early,  the  mother  decided 
to  watch  alone.  She  had  been  a  trained  nurse  before  her 
marriage,  accustomed  when  she  was  younger  to  long 
vigils.  "You  go  down,  dear,  and  get  a  little  sleep,"  she 
urged  in  a  whisper.  "He's  quiet  now.  At  five  o'clock 
I'll  come  for  you  to  take  my  place." 

"You'll  fetch  me  at  once,"  he  whispered,  "if "  then 

hesitated  as  though  breath  failed  him.  A  moment  he 
stood  there  staring  from  her  face  to  the  bed.  "If  you 
hear  anything,"  he  finished.  She  nodded,  and  he  went 
downstairs  to  his  study,  not  to  his  bedroom.  He  left 
the  door  ajar.  He  sat  in  darkness,  listening.  Mother, 
he  knew,  was  listening,  too,  beside  the  bed.  His  heart 
was  very  full,  for  he  did  not  believe  the  boy  could  live 
till  morning.  The  picture  of  the  room  was  all  the  time 
before  his  eyes — the  shaded  lamp,  the  table  with  the 
medicines,  the  little  wasted  figure  beneath  the  blankets, 
and  mother  close  beside  it,  listening.  He  sat  alert,  ready 
to  fly  upstairs  at  the  smallest  cry. 

But  no  sound  broke  the  stillness ;  the  entire  neighbour- 


226         Day  and  Night  Stories 

hood  was  silent;  all  London  slept.  He  heard  the  clock 
strike  three  in  the  dining-room  at  the  end  of  the  cor- 
ridor. It  was  still  enough  for  that.  There  was  not  even 
the  heavy  rumble  of  a  single  produce  wagon,  though 
usually  they  passed  about  this  time  on  their  way  to 
Smithfield  and  Covent  Garden  markets.  He  waited,  far 
too  anxious  to  close  his  eyes.  ...  At  four  o'clock  he 
would  go  up  and  relieve  her  vigil.  Four,  he  knew,  was 
the  time  when  life  sinks  to  its  lowest  ebb.  .  .  .  Then, 
in  the  middle  of  his  reflections,  thought  stopped  dead,  and 
it  seemed  his  heart  stopped  too. 

Far  away,  but  coming  nearer  with  extraordinary  rapid- 
ity, a  sharp,  clear  sound  broke  out  of  the  surrounding 
stillness — a  horse's  hoofs.  At  first  it  was  so  distant  that 
it  might  have  been  almost  on  the  high  roads  of  the 
country,  but  the  amazing  speed  with  which  it  came 
closer,  and  the  sudden  increase  of  the  beating  sound,  v/as 
such,  that  by  the  time  he  turned  his  head  it  seemed  to 
have  entered  the  street  outside.  It  was  within  a  hundred 
yards  of  the  building.  The  next  second  it  was  before  the 
very  door.  And  something  in  him  blenched.  He  knew 
a  moment's  complete  paralysis.  The  abrupt  cessation  of 
the  heavy  clatter  was  strangest  of  all.  It  came  like 
lightning,  it  struck,  it  paused.  It  did  not  go  away  again. 
Yet  the  sound  of  it  was  still  beating  in  his  ears  as  he 
dashed  upstairs  three  steps  at  a  time.  It  seemed  in  the 
house  as  well,  on  the  stairs  behind  him,  in  the  little 
passage-way,  inside  the  very  bedroom.  It  was  an  ap- 
palling sound.  Yet  he  entered  a  room  that  was  quiet, 
orderly,  and  calm.  It  was  silent.  Beside  the  bed  his 
wife  sat,  holding  Jack's  hand  and  stroking  it.  She 
was  soothing  him ;  her  face  was  very  peaceful.  No  sound 
but  her  gentle  whisper  was  audible. 

He  controlled  himself  by  a  tremendous  effort,  but  his 
face  betrayed  his  consternation  and  distress.  ''Hush," 
she  said  beneath  her  breath;  "he's  sleeping  much  more 


The  Tradition  227 

calmly  now.  The  crisis,  bless  God,  is  over,  I  do  believe. 
I  dared  not  leave  him." 

He  saw  in  a  moment  that  she  was  right,  and  an  un- 
tenable relief  passed  over  him.  He  sat  down  beside  her, 
very  cold,  yet  perspiring  with  heat. 

'*You  heard ?"  he  asked  after  a  pause. 

"Nothing,"  she  replied  quickly,  "except  his  pitiful, 
wild  words  when  the  delirium  was  on  him.  It's  passed. 
It  lasted  but  a  moment,  or  I'd  have  called  you." 

He  stared  closely  into  her  tired  eyes.  "And  his 
words?"  he  asked  in  a  whisper.  Whereupon  she  told 
him  quietly  that  the  little  chap  had  sat  up  with  wide- 
opened  eyes  and  talked  excitedly  about  a  "great,  great 
horse"  he  heard,  but  that  was  not  "coming  for  him." 
"He  laughed  and  said  he  would  not  go  with  it  because  he 
'was  not  ready  yet.'  Some  scrap  of  talk  he  had  over- 
heard from  us,"  she  added,  "when  we  discussed  the 
traffic  once.  ..." 

"But  you  heard  nothing  ?"  he  repeated  almost  im- 
patiently. 

No,  she  had  heard  nothing.  After  all,  then,  he  had 
dozed  a  moment  in  his  chair.  .  .  . 

Four  weeks  later  Jack,  entirely  convalescent,  was 
playing  a  restricted  game  of  hide-and-seek  with  his  sister 
in  the  flat.  It  was  really  a  forbidden  joy,  owing  to  noise 
and  risk  of  breakages,  but  he  had  unusual  privileges  after 
his  grave  illness.  It  was  dusk.  The  lamps  in  the  street 
were  being  lit.  "Quietly,  remember ;  your  mother's  rest- 
ing in  her  room,"  were  the  father's  orders.  She  had 
just  returned  from  a  week  by  the  sea,  recuperating  from 
the  strain  of  nursing  for  so  many  nights.  The  traffic 
rolled  and  boomed  along  the  streets  below. 

"Jack !  Do  come  on  and  hide.  It's  your  turn.  I  hid 
last." 

But  the  boy  was  standing  spellbound  by  the  window, 
staring  hard  at  something  on  the  pavement.    Sybil  called 


2^8         Day  and  Night  Stories  , 

and   tugged   in   vain.     Tears   threatened.     Jack   would 
noi  budge.    He  declared  he  saw  something. 

''Oh,  you're  always  seeing  something.  I  wish  you'd 
go  and  hide.  It's  only  because  you  can't  think  of  a  goo<^ 
place,  really." 

"Look!"  he  cried  in  a  voice  of  wonder.  And  as  he 
said  it  his  father  rose  quickly  from  his  chair  before 
the  fire. 

"Look!"  the  child  repeated  with  delight  and  excite- 
ment. "It's  a  great  big  horse.  And  it's  perfectly  white 
all  over."  His  sister  joined  him  at  the  window.  "Where? 
Where?    I  can't  see  it.    Oh,  do  show  me!" 

Their  father  was  standing  close  behind  them  now, 
"I  heard  it,"  he  was  whispering,  but  so  low  the  children 
did  not  notice  him.    His  face  was  the  colour  of  chalk. 

"Straight  in  front  of  our  door,  stupid !  Can't  you  see 
it?  Oh,  I  do  wish  it  had  come  for  me.  It's  such  a 
beauty!"  And  he  clapped  his  hands  with  pleasure  and 
excitement.     "Quick,  quick!     It's  going  away  again!" 

But  while  the  children  stood  half-squabbling  by  tb 
window,  their  father  leaned  over  a  sofa  in  the  adjoinii 
room  above  a  figure  whose  heart  in  sleep  had  quietly 
stopped  its  beating.  The  great  white  horse  had  come. 
But  this  time  he  had  not  only  heard  its  wonderful  ar- 
rival. He  had  also  heard  it  go.  It  seemed  he  heard  the 
awful  hoofs  beat  down  the  sky,  far,  far  away,  and 
very  swiftly,  dying  into  silence,  finally  up  among  the 
stars. 


THE  END. 


-^^-t-^c^v  ,.-. 


/^ 


-Tj^r,^ 


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